Defying Gravity
by Brighid45
Summary: The tenth story in the Treatment series. House is married and working on starting his own practice . . .will he be able to follow his dream? NOTE: this series is AU to the canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. Drama, humor, angst, and some fluffy OC romance. Now revised and updated.
1. Chapter 1

_(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)_

_Too late for second guessing_

_Too late to go back to sleep_

_It's time to trust my instincts _

_Close my eyes, and leap_

_It's time to try defying gravity _

_June 1st_

Sarah put the first jar of strawberry jam on the counter and smiled as the lid clicked. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and reached into the canner with the tongs.

"I have a question." Jason stood in the doorway, book in hand. "What's 'incongruous' mean?"

"Can you give me the sentence it's in?" She took another jar out of the boiling water.

"Uh . . . 'The placement of the two colors was incongruous'," Jason recited.

"Okay. What do you think it means based on context?"

Jason fidgeted. "That's why I'm asking you," he said at last. Sarah hid a smile.

"All right. You've been good about looking things up today. It means out of place or something that doesn't fit."

Jason's face brightened. "I get it. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sarah put the last jar on the counter and turned to the pot of preserves on the stove. She took them off the heat, picked up the tongs and began to put half-pint jars in the canner. When someone came into the kitchen she said in a mock-stern tone, "I've given you all the freebies you're going to get today, young man."

"That's too bad. I was really looking forward to some afternoon delight." Sarah glanced up to find Greg in the doorway. She offered a smile, glad to see him. "Hey," she said. "Come on in and sit down. I need a taste-tester for the first batch. There's some fresh cornbread to try it out on."

"I already tasted it," Jason yelled from the dining room. "It's fine."

"Well I need two opinions then," Sarah called back. She smiled when Greg rolled his eyes. "Okay?"

"Yeah, I guess," came Jason's grudging reply. Sarah wagged a finger at Greg when he started to answer. He closed his mouth and gave her an affronted look, but he sat at the breakfast bar on the other side of the island and watched as she served up a generous square of buttermilk cornbread, soft butter and the leftover jar of preserves, along with a knife.

"How are the interviews going?" she asked as she returned to her second batch.

"They aren't," Greg said. He slathered the cornbread with butter and preserves and took a huge bite.

"You'll choke if you keep that up," Sarah chided him. "You look like a snake eatin' a rat." She picked up the funnel and fit it in a jar. "What do you mean 'they aren't'?"

Greg swallowed noisily and took another bite. "Been though a dozen interviews. They're all idiots," he said through a mouthful of food. "I don't need some moron in six-inch heels drenched in perfume that smells like Black Flag. What's even worse, they think working means a latte at Starbucks and an hour-long gabfest instead of doing my paperwork." He glared at Sarah. "We don't even have a Starbucks around here."

"You're too picky for your own good, Mister Tudball," Sarah said. "Besides, as you well know you can get a perfectly decent latte at the bakery. Rick makes 'em better than any chain ever did. A good secretary would find that out first thing, but you'd expect her to make great coffee in the office anyway." She wiped the rim of the jar with a damp paper towel and put the lid in place, then set the band over it and tightened it with care. "What are you looking for specifically?"

"Someone who can do the damn job," Greg said, and stuffed in the last bite.

"Come on, you know what I mean," Sarah said in mild exasperation. "This isn't just any old secretarial position."

"Position, I like the sound of that. So many possibilities." Greg gave her an exaggerated leer.

"Hah." Sarah began to fill another jar. "Whoever takes on the job will need special skills. Yeah yeah," she said when he started to reply.

"You don't know what I was going to say. It could have been some pithy and insightful paradigm on the difficulties of finding decent staff nowadays." Greg pushed his plate toward Sarah. "More."

"Between you and the bottomless pit in the dining room I won't have anything left to serve for supper," Sarah said, but she gave him another piece. "You need someone else to interview your candidates."

"Thanks! I appreciate it," Greg said. He got up, took the plate with him and headed out into the dining room. Sarah stared after him, speechless. But not for long.

"_Hey!_ Get back here! I didn't volunteer!"

"Someone on the board of directors has to do it," Greg said. He sounded impatient. "Gene's out of town and Will's not free till the weekend. Roz is up to her tits in wiring—"

"_Greg_." She knew it was pointless but couldn't help herself. She heard Greg say something to Jason. The two of them snickered. Despite her annoyance she felt a little glow inside at the sound. While progress was slow, her two lost boys had begun to get accustomed to each other. She wouldn't go so far as to call it friendship, not just yet, but they took it one small step at a time, and that was fine with her.

"That leaves you," Greg said. Sarah sighed. She tightened the last band and lowered the jars into the water, put the lid on the canner and set the timer for five minutes.

"Let me think about it," she said.

"Stubborn hardass," Greg growled.

"Takes one to know one."

"If you were really honest with yourself, you'd admit want to help me out in all sorts of ways," Greg wheedled, a lascivious edge to his words.

"So what are you gonna do if I tell your wife you're talkin' this way to me? She'll cut a switch and tan your hide, and that's all she'll do if you're lucky." She went to the fridge and took out her iced tea, then detoured over to the radio and switched the station from classic rock to country.

"Aw come on!" Greg bellowed, clearly displeased. "Not that garbage!"

"You said I was a hardass," Sarah said. "I have a reputation to live up to now, city slicker." She heard Jason laugh and allowed herself a little smile. She sang along with George Strait and raised her voice so the two in the dining room would hear her. The timer went off as they groaned and yelled at her to stop; she laughed and turned her attention to the second batch of strawberry jam.

Of course she took the damn resumes all the same; she had the time, and anyway this kind of thing was what she was trained for, to find out what made people tick—their motivations, beliefs, desires, expectations. She sent Greg on his way with a canvas tote full of supper to share with Roz, who would work late at the clinic. She ate with Jason and walked him home to Bob's place, not that he needed the escort, he'd long since earned her trust on that score, but because they both enjoyed the ritual. Then she came back, grabbed a cold ginger beer, holed up in the office, put on some Doctor John and took a look at the applications. There were about twenty of them, all arrived that day via email or in the post. Sarah propped her feet on the desk and opened the first folder.

An hour later, she'd gone through about half the stack. Eight of them she rejected outright as obviously unsuitable; the applicants were concerned mostly with Greg House's name on their CV. There was no problem with that as a secondary consideration, but not a main objective.

Slowly she read through the rest of the applications. There were some top-notch executive secretaries here. Unfortunately most of them had never worked with anyone like Greg. They'd probably spent years in well-ordered offices where _contretemps_ and crazy logic simply didn't exist. For the preservation of their sanity, Sarah rejected them and re-read the three she'd set aside as possibilities. Still, none of them struck her as the type to deal with Greg when he was at his demanding, obsessed and oblivious worst.

"Then who could?" she wondered aloud, and swigged a swallow of ginger beer. It would take someone intelligent and thoroughly unflappable, with a steady and inexhaustible sense of humor and perspective, able to obey strange orders or weird requests without too many questions or wild surmises about what was going on . . . Sarah looked down at the files and sighed a little. "Whoever you are, you'd better show up soon," she said softly. She'd give these three a try and see where things led, but it was obvious this process would take some time. She didn't even want to think about how tough it would be for Greg to find a team.

It was an hour or two later when Gene came in. Sarah heard the familiar thump of the duffel by the front door and set the files aside. A moment later her husband appeared in the office doorway. He looked tired, but his smile erased the fatigue from his strong features. Sarah got up to meet him. They held each other for a while, glad to be together. Then she moved back. "Come on," she said, and led him to the kitchen for fried chicken and cornbread and a cold bottle of beer. Gene sat, popped the top on the bottle and took a long swallow.

"Woman, you are above rubies," he said.

"Tough weekend?" Sarah pushed the jar of strawberry preserves toward him and finished off her ginger beer.

"Couldn't get anyone to agree on an agenda for the second wave of help going into Joplin," Gene said. He sounded frustrated, and Sarah couldn't blame him; they both knew all too well the utter devastation wedge tornadoes wrought in just a few moments, the years of work it took to rebuild homes, farms and businesses that had been scoured off the face of the earth. That didn't take into consideration the loss of loved ones, the care of the injured and the grief and guilt of the survivors. "I wish just once those bastards had to spend the night in a crawlspace or a storm cellar while the damn wind takes everything they own."

Sarah didn't say anything, but when she got up she came over and put her hands on Gene's shoulders, rubbed them gently. He sighed and leaned back into her touch.

"Heard from Laynie?" he asked finally.

"This morning. She's in Norman, doing some work with an old friend of ours. She and the team are headed back to Missouri to help out where they can."

Gene reached up and covered her hand with his but didn't say anything. He was more relaxed now though, his muscles loosened under her touch. After a few minutes she ended the session, kissed the top of his head and said "Your supper's gettin' cold."

After he ate and they'd cleaned up the kitchen they went upstairs together, hand in hand. Since they'd come back from their time in Key West it seemed natural to touch and hold each other more, a change they both liked. It was a warm night; Sarah had the fan already set up from a heat wave the previous week. She turned it on and stripped off her tank top and shorts. "I need a shower," she said, and unhooked her bra.

"Good idea, so do I," Gene said. He was already down to his boxers. Sarah flashed him a smile as she stepped out of her boy briefs and tossed them into the hamper.

They soaped each other up and rinsed off, then made love slow and easy in the cascade of warm water. Gene rubbed a handful of conditioner in Sarah's hair. "You know I'm gonna end up brushing it out, I don't feel like fightin' with your damn curls all night long," he said with a grin. That earned him a splash of water to the face and started a battle he won, after he stole a kiss.

"How long will you be home?" Sarah asked a bit later, as Gene coaxed the knots out of her locks.

"Couple of weeks," he said. "There's some odds and ends to work on here, but I thought I'd see if there's anything I can do to help out at the clinic. Roz said something about putting up new drywall."

"She'd be glad to have you," Sarah said, and yawned. "Maybe you can get her to take a night off. I don't think she's worked less than twelve hours a day for the last three weeks."

"How's Greg holding up?"

"He's anxious, but at least he's talking to me about it." She couldn't keep the worry out of her voice.

"You think this is too much for him." Gene began to braid her hair, his long fingers deft and sure even as her unruly curls fought for freedom.

"He has a hard time with change." Sarah was silent a moment. "I'm afraid this might be too much too fast, yes."

"He knows he can come to you. And Roz is there for him too," Gene said. He reached over, opened the top drawer on the nightstand and dug out an elastic holder. "Maybe we should schedule a few more rehearsals for the Flatliners. We've been asked to play for the July 4th picnic this year."

"Sounds like a plan." When Gene flipped the braid over her shoulder she drew his arms around her and kissed his bicep. "Let's sleep in."

"Oh yeah," Gene said with a smirk. "Sleeping in for you is six a.m. Then you'll want me to dig up half your garden. I'm wise to your ways, y'see."

"Curses, foiled again," Sarah said, and let him lie down as she stretched. It felt good to be off her feet. Gene settled in beside her, his hand on her hip, rubbed it gently.

"How's the stiffness?" he asked.

"About the same," she said. "Just a little sore."

"You should have it looked at."

"I know." She picked up his hand and kissed it, then turned out the light. "Next week."

Gene snorted softly. "Hah. You said that last week."

"Did I?"

"Okay, I'm making the appointment myself." He let go of her hand and gave her braid a gentle tug. "Stubborn."

"Haven't heard that before," she said on a laugh, and gave a little hum of satisfaction as Gene spooned in behind her. She listened to him slip into sleep, and watched the last sliver of moonlight leave the room before her own eyes closed.

Gene woke to music. He blinked and cursed under his breath, glanced at the clock—two a.m. Slowly he sat up, then stood. Sarah was gone; the sheet on her side was smoothed down neat and tidy. After a moment Gene clambered out of bed, pulled on his boxers and followed the sound downstairs.

He found Sarah in the living room with only a small table lamp on, as she played the Martin six-string. As he watched her she strummed a few chords, stopped, wiped her cheek, and continued. Quietly he came in and sat down next to her.

"Sorry I woke you," she said after a while. Her voice was thick and almost inaudible. For answer Gene slipped an arm around her shoulders and brought her to him gently.

"You really miss your foster kid, don't you?" he said. Sarah set the guitar aside and leaned into his embrace. She pushed her face into the join of his neck and shoulder; she trembled a little. Her breath caught once, twice.

"Yeah," she said finally, and sniffled. "Yeah."

It took a while, but he coaxed her back to bed and waited until he was sure she was asleep before he drifted off. He wondered how he could help her. She had enough pain to bear when it came to families and children.

When he woke at seven she was already up and at work on a new batch of bread, and sang along with the kitchen radio as the washer labored to clean a new load of laundry.

_'Defying Gravity', from the Broadway musical Wicked_


	2. Chapter 2

_June 6th_

_Zero hour. First interview. Here we go. _Sarah looked down at the file, then up at the webcam, and offered a smile she hoped at least appeared somewhat genuine. "Ms Koych, how nice to begin our interview at last."

The woman on the screen looked down her long nose at Sarah. "If you say so."

_Ouch._ Sarah kept her expression pleasant. "My apologies for the delay, and also for not conducting a face-to-face meeting."

"It's quite understandable. Manhattan can be an intimidating place to visit if you've never been to a big city before."

Sarah gritted her teeth. "I'm sure that's true. Shall we proceed?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." Sarah paused. "Would you tell me please why you would be the best person for this position."

"Mrs. Goldman—"

"Doctor," Sarah said politely. She'd already said it twice.

"Doctor Goldman, I'm not accustomed to the sort of question you'd find some middle management flunky asking young girls hiring on as clerks." The tone was cool, with the faintest whiff of disbelief.

"And yet I'm still asking it, ma'am," Sarah said. "If you would indulge me please, I'd be most appreciative."

The woman sighed. "Very well. I have twenty years experience with a prestigious practice in the heart of Manhattan, working with four physicians who are all highly regarded both within their specialties, and internationally. As a result I'm quite used to handling celebrities, high-ranking military officers, senators and Forbes 500 entrepreneurs." She paused. "You have my references."

Sarah nodded. Very high-falutin' references they were too, and totally meaningless. _Horseshit is still horseshit, even if it comes out of a Triple Crown winner_. "Yes ma'am, I do."

"What more need I say?" Ms Koych looked impatient now. "Surely that's sufficient for your purposes."

"How do you think your colleagues feel about your work?"

Ms Koych looked surprised, then offended. "First of all I have no _colleagues_ in this practice. There are receptionists and nurses. They are assistants, not equals. Anyway, why on earth would I ask them to write a letter of reference for _me?_" She gave a slight sniff. "I'd certainly never do it for them."

Sarah sighed silently. "Of course. Let's move on to the next question. How you would deal with a doctor who takes an unusual, even unorthodox, approach to the practice of medicine?"

"Define 'unorthodox'," Ms Koych said with some suspicion.

"For example, deliberately giving a patient malaria to force symptoms of the true illness to come to light," Sarah said.

There was a shocked silence. Then, "it would be my duty to remind Doctor House of his Hippocratic oath. I would also admonish him to consider the inevitability of higher malpractice insurance rates. It's pointless to incur extra costs if they can be avoided by using safer methods of diagnosis and treatment."

_Aaaand we're done. Dammit, she looked so __good__ on paper. _"I see. Thank you for your time, Ms Koych. I'll be sure to let you know one way or the other shortly—"

"I need a specific date. I have resumes at several other practices and have already received notices that I've been accepted for positions."

_Hah. I'm callin' horseshit on that, lady. Either you got fired from your job for being an insufferable nimrod or you're just plain lying. _"I'm afraid I can't give you a firm date, ma'am. Most likely at the end of the month at the very soonest. There are other candidates applying for this job."

"Very well. Call me at the number listed on the cover sheet." And with that the other woman reached out and turned off her webcam. Sarah struggled with her desire to punch a fist through the monitor.

"Right," she said at last. "I don't think so." She sat back and sipped her cold tea, savored the hit of caffeine even if it was stale, and did her best to expunge the last ten minutes from her mind. A quote came to her, something from that movie Gene and the guys in the band liked so much—Desperado, that was it.

"I'm looking for a man who calls himself Bucho," she said, in a terrible imitation of Antonio Banderas's Spanish accent. "That's all. But you had to do it . . . the hard way." She took Ms Koych's resume, removed the staple, and fed each sheet into the shredder with quiet satisfaction. Once the job was done, she glanced at the next resume from the thick stack on her desk and began to type in the link provided. When the webcam video window opened and indicated the person at the other end was available, she clicked on it and assumed a cheerful expression.

"Good morning, this is Doctor Goldman. I'm calling in reference to your application . . ."

Roz wiped the sweat from her forehead and looked over the diagram once more. She squinted at it, rubbed her eyes and closed them for a moment; they burned with tiredness. _Just like the rest of me._ She found no humor in the thought. With a sigh she straightened and stretched her sore back, then glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven already; might as well go ahead and call it a day. She'd worked almost without a break since six that morning, and her capacity to concentrate was seriously impaired by a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Ten minutes later she pulled up in front of her place—Barbarella hogged the driveway yet again—and got out. She moved slowly now, her legs and back stiff. She felt a little bloated and achy; she was off the pill for the next six days, which meant her period would start sometime tomorrow. A little dinner, a hot shower and a chance to snuggle with her man sounded like heaven. Roz opened the door and came in, stopped to remove her boots and jumpsuit so she wouldn't track grime and dust into the house.

Greg was crashed out on the couch, with a game on the tv. He'd eaten already, if the empty plate and bottle of beer on the coffee table was any indication. Roz didn't bother to greet him. She knew if she said or did anything while he was absorbed in the play-by-play, he'd just ignore her. She went into the kitchen and found the peanut butter and strawberry jam jars on the counter, both without lids, the bread loaf and a bag of potato chips also left open, and a dirty butter knife tossed carelessly into the sink. Roz surveyed this clutter and the message it conveyed, torn between exasperation and reluctant amusement. After a few moments she went to the fridge, took out a few ingredients and set to work.

Fifteen minutes later she'd just added pasta to the salted water in the pot when Greg appeared in the doorway, beer in hand. "What's for dinner?" he wanted to know. Roz glanced at him and offered a slight smile.

"I'm having spaghetti with pesto and _pecorino_ and what's left of the salad," she said.

"Isn't that what I'm having too then?" Greg leaned against the doorjamb and took a long swallow.

"It looks like you ate already." Roz picked up the microplane and began to grate the cheese.

"You weren't here when I came home," Greg said. "You've come in late almost every night for the last three weeks."

"That's because evening's the only time I have to do the wiring at the clinic besides the weekend," Roz said. "As you well know."

"If I'd realized you'd be married to the damn clinic instead of me I never would have agreed to renovate it." Greg finished the beer and set the bottle on the counter. Roz paused. So, not just accusation; there was resentment and something else, something he didn't want to bring out directly into the open. She put down the microplane and turned to face him.

"The more time I spend in the evenings working on the wiring, the sooner it gets done," she said quietly. "We agreed to that in the beginning. I offered to take off two nights a week."

Greg folded his arms. "Don't do me any favors."

Roz felt a spurt of irritation. "Maybe I'd like to come home before hitting the twelve hour workday mark and get to see my husband in some state other than comatose and snoring the house down. Maybe I'd like to put my feet up and watch the game and have a beer before I fall asleep on the couch."

"So now it's my fault you work longer hours."

"I didn't say—" She took a breath, counted to five. "Okay. From now on I'm taking two nights off."

"I look forward to the resumption of domestic tranquility and order." Greg turned away. "I'm going back to watch the game. You can bring me a plate."

Roz watched him go and entertained a number of decidedly un-tranquil thoughts. She drained the pasta, tossed it with the pesto and took it and the grated cheese with her to the dinner table. She watched the last bit of early summer sunshine fade from the back yard as she ate. Then she washed up, dried her hands, fed an affectionate Hellboy, grabbed a clean plate from the dish rack and left the kitchen. Greg looked up from the game.

"You forgot something."

"Nope." Roz handed him the plate and went into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, peeled off her tee shirt and shorts, tossed them into the hamper and unhooked her bra as Greg came in. He shut the door and leaned against it, arms folded; he watched her with eyes gone bright and cold as ice.

"So this is how it's gonna be from now on," he said. "I spend evenings alone and you play games and go to bed without me."

Roz stepped out of her briefs. "Can we postpone this discussion for ten minutes so I can get a shower? I have grit in places I never thought grit could turn up, and my back is killing me."

Greg smirked but there was no real humor behind it. "How stupid are you, ignoring your number one weapon—you standing there naked."

"Yeah, right. My boobs aren't anywhere near big enough to hold your interest during a fight." Roz took her robe from the foot of the bed and went into the bathroom.

When she emerged from the shower it was to find Greg gone. As Roz pulled on a clean pair of undies and a tank top she considered her options. She could talk to him, but the mere thought filled her with apprehension. It would be a mistake; she tended to be more emotional right before her period, and tiredness made it worse. The last thing she wanted to do was break down in front of her husband and be accused of blackmail. _But I don't want this hanging over us either._ She struggled with the decision, caught in a conflict of interest.

In the end she went to bed. _My head will be clearer in the morning. We'll get things worked out then,_ was her last thought before she dropped into sleep.

_June 7th_

Greg is pulled into wakefulness by the feel of the mattress as it shifts a bit. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinks as they adjust to the darkness. After a few moments he can see Roz sits on the edge of the bed, bent over slightly. Her arms are wrapped tight around herself; her whole attitude is one of pain. As he watches she gets to her feet and goes into the bathroom. She moves as if her back bothers her. He remembers she'd said it hurt, and wonders if she pulled a muscle or tried to carry something too heavy for her. He's already taken her to task for that on several occasions with no effect.

A few minutes later she returns with the heating pad. Her features are tense, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she plugs in the pad, moves the bedclothes, lies down and settles in, places the pad on her abdomen. Now he knows what the problem is. His anger from earlier that evening wars with his concern. Worry wins out, at least for the moment. "How bad are the cramps?" he says quietly.

"Didn't mean to wake you up, I'm sorry."

"How bad?" he asks again, and puts a little snap in his words.

"I'll live." The weariness in her voice tugs at him, makes his annoyance over their unresolved fight seem foolish. He comes closer, rests his hand on her hip, then rubs her thigh, just a gentle pressure. She sighs softly. "Mmmm . . ."

He takes this as encouragement and moves in behind her, lets his touch trail down to her belly. He slips under the heating pad and massages her abdomen, using a slow circular stroke. Roz leans back against him, relaxes as he drifts lower. His fingers slide through soft curls to the cleft between her thighs. When he parts the warm folds and finds her clitoris she groans a little but doesn't pull away.

"Endorphins will help with the contractions and bring on your menses," he whispers in her ear. "Just let me do the driving."

He works her gently, eases her bit by bit toward release so that her orgasm fills her up with sweetness. He likes her slender body cradled in his so that he can feel every ripple of sensation as it courses through her. She shudders and moans and relaxes against him, her hurried breaths smooth out as the pleasure soaks in, and sleep gradually claims her once more. He puts the heating pad in place and slides an arm around her, cups her breast in his palm. She was wrong about him and his interest; her rack might be modest, but he gets exclusive rights and that's enough to keep him happy. If only everything between them could be solved in such a forthright and simple fashion . . . He closes his eyes and sends the wish off into the darkness, though he knows it'll never be answered or fulfilled.

Roz threw the last of the wash into the dryer, shut the door, set the timer for an hour, and went into the bedroom to pause in the doorway. Greg was still asleep of course; it was a rare moment when he was vulnerable, his defenses down. There was a curious innocence in his expression she treasured, something she'd never tell him or anyone else.

_We need to talk, but not right now. _She'd come to see him at work in the afternoon, make sure to be home a little after five tonight too. Supper would be ready to go, she'd already filled the slow cooker with a pot roast and vegetables and put red wine in with the stock and garlic to make _au jus_ the way he liked it . . . Roz remembered his touch in the darkness, tender and gentle, and fought the urge to call in sick and spend the day in bed with her husband. They'd just had a month together only a few weeks ago; she had a stack of calls to answer, and that didn't include the clinic renovation.

On a sigh she turned away, went to the front door, picked up her toolbox and went out into the new day, as she tried to remember how to get to the Besselmeyer place with the detour.

Greg limps into the kitchen to find everything still set out from the night before—peanut butter, jam, chips and bread. He looks at the clutter as a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. Then he spots the slow cooker on the counter with a neon green post-it note stuck to its side. He ambles forward and pulls it free, not sure what it will say- 'I'm sorry' or 'I love you' or some other sappy line.

_turn me on before you leave_

_see you at 2_

_TY for turning me on last night too, Fingers –R_

He stares down at Roz's neat, firm handwriting and can't help it, he has to laugh. Just that quickly the fight is done, she's won this round and he really doesn't care, because . . . _Because she's not boring,_ he thinks, and goes in search of the lid for the peanut butter jar.


	3. Chapter 3

_June 16th_

"Can you tell me why you believe you'd be the best person for this job?" Sarah waited with some trepidation for the answer. The interview had gone well to this point: Abby Shalcross seemed to be a natural for the position. She was intelligent, quick to grasp context, and had a good idea of what to expect. She'd worked in a large practice in Chicago for some years before they'd downsized and let her go, apparently with some reluctance if the letters of reference were to be believed. She was not averse to strange requests or odd methods of diagnosis; she'd countered Sarah's malaria example with a few weird stories of her own, and the two of them had enjoyed a good laugh at doctors and their little ways. Now came the big question.

"Well . . ." Abby thought about it. "I've been around enough to know the difference between someone jerking my chain, and someone in need of real help. It's more important than you realize. Anyway, if you can't keep your sense of humor and your perspective you won't last long in medicine."

Sarah nodded as she exulted inwardly. Maybe she'd finally found—

"—matter of keeping the right people coming in the doors as well," Abby said. Sarah paused.

"Um-sorry," she said, "there was a glitch on my end—could you repeat that?"

"Of course. I was saying that running a clinic is also a matter of keeping the right people coming in." Abby smiled at her. "I know all about that."

"Right people," Sarah said slowly. She felt a sense of forboding. "Who would they be?"

"Oh, you know. Like us." Abby winked. Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. _Dammit__._

"Pretend I don't know," she said. Abby laughed.

"Sure, I get it," she said cheerfully. "Well, you have to make sure your patients have the proper background and education. With someone as brilliant as Doctor House, all sorts of people will want his services. It's my job to make sure the patients who come through the doors are worth his time and will be valuable contributors to society, and not leeches."

Sarah almost looked up to see if there was a ten-ton weight over her head on a frayed rope. "Forgive me for asking, but does proper background include skin color?"

Abby gave Sarah a conspiratorial look. "Well, we don't talk about that, you know. Some people . . . they don't understand."

_I just bet they don't. _"Yes, well . . . I—I think I have everything I need, Mrs. Shalcross."

"Oh, I hope you choose me!" Abby said. Her genuine enthusiasm broke Sarah's heart, even as she imagined the resume in the trash barrel out back, burned with the hottest fire she could stoke.

"Um—I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks. Thanks for your time," and Sarah ended the interview. When the webcam was off she regarded her empty teacup and wondered if she should add a shot of Glenlivet, just so she could get through the interview process. Maybe more than a shot.

"No," she said out loud, "you'll end up in the weekly AA meeting at the church if you start that kind of thing. And then you won't have time to do interviews." The idea struck her as funny but her laugh sounded a little hollow in the quiet office. She got up and went to the bathroom for a bladder break and to freshen her makeup. It still felt weird to wear raggedy cutoffs with a sleeveless silk shell and her best linen jacket, but no one could see her below waist level and be damned if she would put on a skirt and three inch heels for a webcam interview.

She detoured to the kitchen to refill her teacup and seize a fresh cinnamon roll, both necessary to fortify her failing resolve; she took them to the office and polished off the roll while she paged through resumes, selected a likely candidate, and typed in the address.

An hour later Sarah turned off the monitor and exited the office, sodden with weariness and discouragement. She closed the door on her failure and moved slowly across the common room to the spare bedroom. Once inside she sat in the easy chair by the fireplace. Greg's things had long since been taken to Roz's place; Sarah had cleaned and swept and washed the comforter, remade the bed with clean linens . . . and yet it was still Greg's room, at least for her. She closed her eyes.

_This isn't working._ She'd gone through close to two dozen interviews, and none of the candidates had proven suitable. And yet she didn't know what else she could do. She'd thought of someone local, had even asked Diane Wirth if she could interview a few of the senior nurses. Diane had been gracious enough to allow Sarah the opportunity to steal from her best employees, an act of true generosity . . . but none of the staff wanted anything to do with Greg. "I'd have to be crazy, completely desperate for work or both," one of the women had declared. "In fact being nuts would have to come first."

_I'm failing him._ It was a harsh judgment, and yet she felt it was true all the same. Progress had been made on the clinic renovation—slow progress, true, but soon enough the day would come when the doors would be open for business. What if she couldn't find someone in time? The thought stabbed at her, and yet she also knew selection of the right person was paramount. It had to be someone who could deal with Greg at his worst. Unfortunately, most people had trouble with Greg at his best.

Sarah sighed and rose to her feet. There was no point in maundering, as her grandma Bailey would have said. If she wanted to think, better to put her hands to good use. It always helped her thought processes if she kept busy anyway.

Half an hour later she'd substituted a tank top for the blouse and jacket and scrubbed off her makeup. She was crouched in her garden as she tugged weeds out of the cucumber patch. She wiped sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand and felt a little satisfaction as the pile of lambs-quarters grew. She'd take them over to Bob's place for his chickens when she was done. The walk would do her good, and she could ask him what he'd do about the situation.

"Hey." Jason appeared in the shade of the box elder by the kitchen door, cinnamon roll in hand. Sarah sat back and smiled at him, pleased to see he'd helped himself. That was a small step forward for someone, anyway.

"Hey," she said. "Did you and Mandy turn in that project for extra credit?"

"Yeah. Chores are done too, is it okay if I play games for a while?"

"Sure. I'll be in after a bit and we'll have some lunch." By the time she was finished he'd be ravenous again; the boy was a bottomless pit, and already an inch taller. Jason nodded and disappeared. Sarah shook off a bead of sweat on the end of her nose and went back to work.

She'd just packed weeds into the hod she used to carry odds and ends when a shadow loomed over her. "I hope you're using sunscreen," Greg said, and extended a hand. Sarah took it and got to her feet.

"Good morning," she said, and gave him a brief one-armed hug. He swatted at her, but it was a token protest.

"I didn't come over here to be molested," he grumbled, and took the hod. "What the hell are you saving weeds for? Some nasty medicinal tea that's supposed to repair forty years of liver damage overnight, no doubt."

"It's for Bob's chickens," she said. "Anyway, I don't make you drink milk thistle tea. I offer you capsules instead."

"More like coerce." He dumped the hod on the harvest table by the back door and proceeded into the kitchen, where he took a cinnamon roll from the pan. "How's it going with the interviews?"

"No luck yet," Sarah said. She went to the fridge and extracted a ginger beer, rolled the bottle over her forehead with a sigh of relief, then popped the top and took a long swig.

Greg gave her a long stare. "How hard can it be?" he wanted to know. Sarah shook her head.

"Most of the people I've interviewed have never dealt with someone like you—"

"You mean genius," he said, and offered her a wide smile. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I mean pain in the ass," she said. "And genius, yes."

"We'll see about that," he said. He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer and headed for the office. Sarah stood there as her eyes widened.

"_Shit,_" she said finally, and hurried after him.

By the time she reached the door he had the monitor on and perused a resume he'd grabbed off the top of the stack on Sarah's desk. "Huh," he said, and held it at arm's length. "Date of birth December eighteenth, nineteen fifty-eight. Older than me by two weeks." He tossed the resume in the trash. "I want sweet perky ta-tas and a fresh young face to look at, not some menopausal hag with Cooper's droop." With a flourish he took the next resume off the pile, opened it and paged through. "Harvard School of Business . . . why the hell would I want a stockbroker running my office?" That resume also hit the circular file.

"_Greg!_" Sarah put a hand on top of the stack.

"Oh, stop acting like this is some sacred duty," he snapped. "I know what you're up to. You're worrying yourself into a complex over finding the right person. Here's how you do it: give 'em the job and see if they stick. Like throwing spaghetti against a wall, only more colorful because of all the icky stuff humans have inside them."

"Did it ever occur to you that coming all the way up here to be your office exec is a massive lifestyle change for most of these people? You can't be cavalier about this! You're messing with someone's—"

"Blah-dy blah blah," Greg said. He popped the top off the beer bottle on the edge of the desk and yanked another resume out from under her hand. "They applied, they accept the consequences." He flipped past the cover letter and squinted at the page. "Ah, here we go. Twenty eight years old, two years experience in a dental clinic in Hoboken." To Sarah's horror he typed in the link and turned on the webcam. "If she's cute she's hired."

"Greg . . ." Sarah subsided as the link opened. Greg hit a key and spoke.

"Hellooooo, anybody home?"

A moment later a picture flashed onto the screen. It was a young woman. She peered at the camera and looked confused.

"Hello—Doctor Goldman?"

"Nope," Greg said cheerfully. "I understand you're looking for work in Doctor House's clinic."

The young woman's face brightened. "Oh yes—"

"You make coffee."

"Well, I—yeah—"

"How about massages? You any good with those?" Greg took a long swallow of beer. The girl's eyes opened wide.

"You're _drinking_. It's not even lunchtime yet," she said in an accusatory way.

"Nice job of stating the obvious. Massages, yes or no?"

"Is this a joke?"

Greg sighed. "Okay, I'll take that as a no. Let's move on. Can you pick up dry cleaning and buy flowers for my mistress when I forget our anniversary? Run naked around my office every morning? Give the head doctor a discreet blowjob after he deals with a difficult patient?"

"That's not what an executive secretary does!" The girl sounded angry now.

"I didn't say it was. I just asked you if you could do all those things. You assumed I'll require you to do them. I need someone who's capable of understanding the difference between 'can you' and 'you will'. Thanks for playing." Greg shut off the webcam and deposited the resume in the trash. He down a long swig of beer, gave a loud belch, and got to his feet. "Yeah, it's that simple," he said, and left Sarah there. She looked at the files in the trash can, at the scar on her desk from Greg opening his beer on the edge; then she turned off the light, walked out and closed the door behind her. As she passed through the living room she saw Greg sit down next to Jason as they argued over access to the controls. She said nothing, just detoured to grab the Martin six-string, then kept going until she reached the back room, where she jammed her hat on her head, stuffed her work gloves in her back pocket and went to the garden.

She didn't return to garden duty, however; she sat in the shade and picked a few chords, and watched the breeze ripple over the tall grass in Bob's pasture. Cloud shadows chased each other in endless succession as she struggled with the hard slap to her pride Greg had just delivered. She had to admit he was partially right, she did consider the work something of a sacred duty; perhaps she did take things too seriously. But she also knew an endless succession of unsuitable people would only make for chaos and stress in the workplace, to say the least—something a new practice didn't need. An elimination process of some kind had to be used. But how could she change things?

_Please send someone soon because I don't know what the hell I'm doing and Greg needs a strong right arm,_ she said at last to Whomever might be listening. _And since I know he'll end up with what he needs, not what he wants, could You please make that someone worth the aggravation they'll inevitably cause? Thanks. Appreciate it. _

Her petition was cut short when her half-full bottle of ginger beer was waved in front of her face. "Sulking, I see."

Sarah accepted the drink. "Just thinking," she said. Greg settled into the seat next to hers. A few weeks ago she'd found another old kitchen chair someone had put out on the curb for the trash truck in the village. A little basic repair and plenty of wood glue made it fit for duty once more. She'd placed it in her favorite spot next to her own chair, a tacit invitation to keep her company, and sometimes Greg used it. So did Gene, and even Jason had shown up a time or two.

"You're making this too hard," Greg said at last.

"You're right, maybe I do take this too seriously," she said. "But bringing in just anyone won't work." She took a sip of ginger beer, savored the burn of spice and carbonation on her tongue. "You'll have enough to deal with just getting a routine going and having your team and the staff learn to work together."

Greg reached out. "Lemme see the ax."

Sarah handed him the guitar. He cradled it in his hands like a favorite woman. After a few moments he began to play, just idle chords at first, and then a melody. Sarah smiled when she recognized it.

"'Everyone says I love you/but just what they say it for I never knew/it's just inviting trouble for the poor sucker who says I love you,'" she sang, fighting to keep a straight face. Greg picked up the next verse with her.

"'Take a pair of rabbits who/get stuck on each other and begin to woo/and pretty soon you'll find a million more rabbits who say 'I love you' . . ."

Sarah couldn't help it, she had to laugh. "Cynic," she accused. Greg gave her a slight smile.

"More like realist," he countered, as he picked the melody.

"That's a wise quack," she quoted, and laughed again when he groaned. "Hey, you were the one who chose the song." She sipped her ginger beer. "I didn't know you were a Marx Brothers fan."

"Ever since I was four, curled up on the couch sick as a dog and watching _Duck Soup_ between bouts of hurling," Greg said. "Groucho was an early role model, mainly because my dad disapproved of him."

"That explains so much," Sarah said. She stretched her legs and rested the ginger beer on her belly, tipped her head back as she listened to Greg play. "I'll try to lighten up," she said eventually.

"Good, because anyone we hire will either leave or get fired and we'll go through a dozen more, minimum. It doesn't matter how carefully you choose. This work is never what people think it will be. Even I didn't realize what it would be like when Cuddy started the department at PPTH." Greg finished the song and set the guitar aside, then levered himself upright. "Speaking of hell, I'm off to work. I might even get to see my wife for five minutes before she crawls into bed." He sounded more resigned than angry.

"Come over for supper. I'll call Roz and get her to meet you here," Sarah said. She glanced up at him and smiled. "Gene's doing steaks and baked potatoes on the grill. We'll have homemade baked beans and salad. Stop by around six. Bring some ice cream."

"kay." He paused and put a hand on her shoulder, gave her a gentle squeeze. "Thanks for taking this on," he said quietly, and limped off before she could reply. Sarah watched the wind and cloud shadows chase each other over the top of the meadow grass, and took a little comfort from Greg's parting words. Somehow, some way, the right person would be found and the clinic would be a success. She'd do her best to make sure of it.

'_Everyone Says I Love You', Bert Kalmar & Harry Ruby_


	4. Chapter 4

_June 16th_

Gene pulled into the driveway and parked with a sense of relief. It had been a long and boring week, made up mostly of meetings, more meetings, consultations, and much of the general minutiae he had to deal with on a regular basis now that he no longer did fieldwork. He hated it, but it was as much a part of his job as work with patients, or reading up on new methods of pain management.

The house was quiet as he came in and dumped his duffel by the door. It was a warm evening; the long shadows of twilight stole silently into the house. An oscillating fan moved fitfully in the living room to send a ripple of coolness through the still air. Gene stood there for a moment, and enjoyed the feel of coming home. He remembered when he and Sarah had spent the better part of an afternoon in the gutted shell of this old farmhouse, excited by the possibilities it offered and equally dismayed by the time, effort and cost involved . . . but it had proven a wise decision, to give the place a second chance. It had become home in some indefinable way he'd learned to treasure, and he knew Sarah felt the same way.

He shucked his jacket and tossed it over a chair on his way through to the kitchen. Once there he took a cold beer out of the fridge, opened it and downed a long, chilly swallow. Refreshed, he went back into the living room, toed off his shoes, grabbed the remote and checked around the channels until he found the Phils and the Marlins locked in battle on ESPN. Sarah was at Lou's, which meant she wouldn't be back until nearly midnight. She might bring home leftover pizza, but in the meantime he could make do with leftovers.

He found some cold fried chicken and cornbread and made short work of it, and watched in mild resignation as the Phils did their best to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as they lost their lead, and let the Marlins go up a run at the bottom of the eighth. Finally he gave up and changed channels, to find a _Deadliest Catch_ episode. A while back he'd actually worked on pain management with one of the captains. The man had been slammed into a metal sorting table years before as a deckhand, and the accident had caused significant long-term nerve damage to his lower spine. Gene had enjoyed the consult and done his best to give the guy some relief; he'd listened to some hair-raising tales of life on the Bering Sea, and countered with a few from his days on the farm, to the captain's bemusement. Most people who hadn't grown up in the country had no idea how dangerous it could be to work the land. His mother's brother had nearly died when his overalls had gotten caught in the auger used to move cattle fodder into a storage silo, and he'd ended up wound around the threads like a rubber band.

"Dumbass," Gene said out loud, and gave a snort of laughter. _The idiot wouldn't be alive today if his wife hadn't heard him yell for help . . . some people lead a charmed life._ He settled back, put the plate beside him and closed his eyes as tiredness took over.

He woke when the front screen door slapped shut—Sarah was home. She moved slowly into the living room, two stacked pizza boxes in one hand, and her purse and work apron in the other. Gene sat up.

"Hey," he said, and yawned.

"Hey babe," Sarah said. She sounded tired and more than a little dispirited, but she came over and gave him a kiss. "You're back early."

"Boss said I could have a long weekend." He took the boxes out of her hand and patted the couch. "Take a load off."

Sarah didn't have to be told twice. She sat and relaxed against the cushions with a sigh as she tipped her head back.

"Long night?"

"Long week," she said. "How was yours?"

"Boring as hell. I'm glad to be home."

Sarah put her hand on his leg. "I'll second that." She sighed again as Gene flipped open the top box and removed a slice of pizza.

"How's it going with the interviews?" It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it right away. Sarah removed her hand.

"Don't ask." She sounded angry and what was worse, frustrated. He was well-acquainted with that tone. Gene chewed a mouthful of pizza. One section of his mind enjoyed the sausage, peppers and extra cheese, even as he knew discretion was the better part of valor at this point.

"Okay," he said mildly.

"I'm sorry. Can we not get into it right now? I'll—I'll talk about it tomorrow. Just—not tonight. I don't want to think about it until I have to."

"Gotcha." Gene swallowed, took another bite and waited.

"It's just—" Sarah sat up and turned to face him. She had a finger in her curls, and tugged on a long coppery strand without any awareness she did so. "Greg says not to take this seriously, but dammit—he needs a good exec and I've been through a stack of the resumes people keep sendin' and _none_ of them are worth a plugged nickel." Her accent grew more pronounced, another sign of her agitation. "He needs someone who can handle him when he's actin' like the world's biggest four year old, and half these East Coast entitlement whores couldn't handle anything worse'n a damn paper cut."

Gene had been trained well by his older sisters; he knew better than to laugh. "I see."

"He thinks I should just—just _hire_ someone and let them sink or swim!" She snorted in indignation. "Does he have _any_ idea how many people we'd go through? It would mean total chaos in the clinic! We'd just get used to one person an' they'd quit or walk out and then we'd have to call in another name on the list . . . it's pure-d crazy!"

"Huh." Gene took a big bite of pizza.

"We can't work that way! We need someone in place before the clinic opens, someone we can depend on, not some newbie who expects the practice to be like the damn Mayo Clinic!" Sarah paused. She squinted at him. "You're not sayin' anything."

Gene pointed to his mouth. "Eating," he said through a mouthful of food.

"Uh huh. Coward." Sarah gave the curl a vicious yank. Gene reached out and took her hand in his, to free the mistreated strand.

"Get yourself a ginger beer," he said. "Come back and have a slice with me. I bet you haven't had anything to eat all night."

"Not hungry," she muttered, and got to her feet. She picked up his empty plate and went into the kitchen, shoulders slumped. Gene watched her as he munched the crust. After a few moments he dusted his hands, turned off the tv, got up and went into the dining room. A stealthy glance through the doorway showed his wife at the sink as she scrubbed the life out of the plate. After a moment she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Well, that tore it; he'd seen and heard enough. If he didn't take things in hand now, so to speak, she'd worry herself into sleeplessness. While he had plans for the two of them to stay up a little longer, an all-night talk therapy session wasn't what he had in mind. Quietly he entered the kitchen and went to the radio. There was a stack of CDs beside it. He sorted through until he found the one he wanted—a Christmas stocking stuffer Sarah had given him as a joke, a compilation of great hits of the seventies. He popped it into the holder, selected the track, then headed for Sarah. She observed his approach with wariness. When he came within range he took the plate from her soapy hands and dumped it in the sink; he snagged the dishtowel from the oven door handle, wiped her piddies free of suds, and took her in his arms.

"Hey toots, give a jarhead a moment of your time," he said, and smiled down at her as the track began to play. Sarah's eyes widened.

"Oh lord," she groaned.

_have I a hope or half a chance_

_to even ask if I could dance with you_

_yoo hoo_

_would you greet me or politely turn away? _

_would there suddenly be sunshine on a cold and rainy day?_

_oh babe, what would you say?_

Sarah gave a choked laugh and settled into his hold. Her cheek came to rest against his shoulder; she was like silk in his arms, even as tired as she undoubtedly was. She flowed from one step to another, her warm body pressed to his.

_for there are you sweet lollipop_

_and here am I with such a lot to say_

_hey hey _

_just to walk with you along the Milky Way_

_to caress you through the night time_

_bring you flowers every day_

_oh babe, what would you say?_

A soft breeze came in through the back screen door, redolent of cut hay and sun-warmed earth; crickets played their own evening song. Gene brought Sarah a little closer. His hands slid over her back, slow and tender.

'_cause oh, baby I know_

_I know I could be so in love with you_

_and I know that I could make you love me too_

_and if I could only hear you say you do_

_but anyway, what would you say?_

They moved gently together to the sweet music and let the cares of the day fall away; he knew he had succeeded when her face lifted to his, her gaze sparked with amusement, anticipation and a little edge of gratitude. They kissed and lingered until the song began to fade. When Gene led her to the doorway and through the living room to the stairs she followed. Her smile glimmered in the gathering darkness. They went up to their room together, and left the fan to stand guard over the rest of the house in their absence.

_June 17th_

Sarah woke to the feel of a long arm draped across her waist and a slight, steady snore. She stirred and opened one eye, and yawned. There was a faint but not unpleasant ache between her thighs, accompanied by some vivid memories of the night before. She smiled and stretched a little, then gently wriggled away, with the intent to go downstairs and start the coffeemaker. She had almost reached the edge of the bed when the arm came to life and began to pull her inexorably back to the center. She giggled and tried to make an escape, but it was useless. In short order she was kissed quite thoroughly by the owner of the arm, and also made aware of his upstanding interest in her.

"You ate two plates of oysters when you went to lunch in town yesterday," she said in accusation. Gene buried his nose in her hair and groaned as she lifted her hips and allowed him access.

"D'we have to talk?" he complained, which just made her laugh harder.

Some time later they lay together, lazy and smug with afterglow. Sarah kissed Gene's cheek. "Impressive morning wood," she said. "Not bad for an old guy."

"Thanks." He cupped her breast and gently tweaked her nipple. "Nice and firm. Not bad for an old broad."

"You're too kind." She laced her fingers in his. "Let's goof off. I'll bring us breakfast in bed and we can hide out up here all morning. Jason won't be over till this afternoon, and I'm taking a break from interviews before I lose my mind."

"Mmmm . . . sounds like a plan to me." He brought her palm to his lips. "Toast and a cuppa joe," he said. "That's all we need. Okay?"

Of course she brought an omelette too, but the rest was as he'd requested—buttered toast and coffee, hot and strong. They ate together and watched the lace curtains dance in the bright June sunshine.

"What's Bob running in the field?" Sarah asked, as she listened to the distant chug of a tractor. "A cultivator?"

"Manure spreader."

Sarah laughed. "There's a charming image."

"The cows sure think so," Gene said with a smile.

"Not until the clover comes up." She smiled when he chuckled.

"Thought I'd help out down at the clinic this weekend," he said eventually. Sarah nodded and rested her head against his shoulder, made a little noise of contentment as his arm cradled her close.

"I'll come with you if you like," she said. "I can hammer a nail in straight at least."

"How are things going? The last time I talked with Roz she'd gotten most of the main room stripped out and rewired."

"Things have slowed down some," Sarah said. She sighed softly. "Greg is giving her a hard time."

"What about?"

"You name it. He's pushing her, testing her limits."

Gene wound a curl around his finger. "You know you can't solve this for them."

"I know." Sarah closed her eyes. "I know."

"Think he'll keep going till it's broke?"

"I think Roz will put her foot down before that happens." Sarah smiled when Gene tugged gently on the curl, then let it go. "If she asks for advice or comes to talk to me, I'll help out, but that's all. Y'all leave me alone, that's the best I can do."

Gene chuckled. "Y'know, you've been tellin' me for years you're an Okie and yet you still say 'y'all' to me like I'm more than one person."

"I have to say it to someone. There's never enough people around for me to use it right," she said. "What do you know about it anyway, Nebraska boy? When I met you you were puttin' creamed corn on your mashed potatoes and callin' it gravy." She squealed when he tickled her sides.

"That's better than livin' off cans of hominy and JD," he said, and grinned down at her.

"Yokel!" She rolled on top of him, straddled his hips and gave him a triumphant look.

"Takes one to know one." He pulled her close and kissed her long and hard. When the kiss ended she didn't move.

"Wanna go to WalMart?" she said after a few moments. Gene chuckled, his hands gentle on her back.

Eventually they put on enough clothes to be decent and went downstairs. It was too nice to sit inside, so they ended up in the garden with tall glasses of iced tea.

"So good to be home," Gene said. Sarah glanced over at him.

"How bad is it, not being in the field?" she asked quietly.

"Some days are worse than others." He leaned back and crossed long legs. "You know Greg will have to deal with this himself." He stroked the back of her hand to reduce the sting in his words. "He has a history of pushing the situation as far as it will go and even farther."

"I know." Sarah tipped her head back. "He's still coming to me to talk. Yesterday morning he bitched me out for taking the interview process too seriously."

"You do tend to approach things like you're on the church committee," Gene said, straight-faced. Sarah gave him a light slap.

"Shut up. I ain't no church lady."

"Coulda fooled me," Gene said, which earned him another smack, this one with a little more force behind it. "Hey! Don't beat up the messenger!"

"You'll know if I beat you up." Sarah caressed his arm. "It's just that this is important."

"But it isn't life or death. Okay, bad choice of words," Gene said on a laugh when Sarah lifted her head and glowered at him. "I'm just sayin' if the person we bring in doesn't work out, we'll find someone else. You yourself said there are at least twenty resumes coming in every day. Someone out there has to be the right person for the job."

"I know. It's just . . ." Sarah fell silent a few moments. "It feels like I'm going about this all wrong. Like fate is laughing at me for working so hard when the right person will just appear and make me feel like all kinds of a fool for even tryin'."

"Well, you remember what we always got told growing up," Gene said. "You have to pray like it all depends on God, then work like it all depends on you."

"Damn, you would bring that in." Sarah lay back with a sigh just as a voice rose from the interior of the house.

"Did you two kill yourselves with too much sex or do I have to make my own lunch?"

Gene laughed. "Your boy's here," he said.

"No kidding," Sarah said dryly. She heaved herself out of the chair. Gene rolled his eyes.

"Wish I'd get spoiled that way."

Sarah spared him a look. "You do. How many notches did you cut in the bedpost last night? You got nothin' to complain about."

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't," Gene said mildly. "As I recall, the plan was to goof off all morning and it isn't even ten yet." He waggled his eyebrows. Sarah's lips twitched.

"When you're right, you're right," she said. "Hold that thought." She headed into the house.

'_What Would You Say,' Hurricane Smith_


	5. Chapter 5

Sarah comes in through the mudroom door in a black tank top and ragged cutoffs, her bright hair sparked with gold and copper. Greg knows she'll hug him, there's no way to avoid her, so he lets her throttle him. Actually her embrace is gentle, and he secretly enjoys the affection in her touch, but of course he won't let her know. She's smart enough to figure it out on her own anyway.

"Lunch," he reminds her. She lets go and steps back, looks him over, her sea-green eyes bright with amusement and just a little hint of concern. She doesn't say anything though, just goes over to the fridge to pull out sandwich ingredients. He follows her, and savors the sense of home he always feels when he comes here. Roz's apartment has slowly become as much his as it is hers now, but this is the first household in which he was made welcome no matter what he said or did, something no one's ever offered him before. It's a good feeling, one he still mistrusts to some extent, but accepts as the inevitable consequence of prolonged proximity to other people.

"Roast beef?" Sarah says. "Horseradish cheddar? I can make two sandwiches if Roz is coming over to spend some time with you."

"Stop fishing," he says, and steals a slice of cheese.

"What do you mean?"

He doesn't want to explain, but if he won't take the hint she'll give him a hard time. "She's been too busy to stop by," he says quietly. Sarah glances at him but says nothing. This annoys him even more than if she'd gone into full busybody mode. "What, no words of wisdom, Mother Mary?" He watches as she puts the completed sandwiches, wrapped in waxed paper, in a blue lunch tote she keeps for him.

"I'm not going to say let it be," she says, and gives him a slight smile. The concern is still there, but . . . _She's giving us a chance to work it out ourselves,_ he realizes. So he pushes a little harder because he doesn't want to work things out, he wants her to take care of it for him and make the difficulties go away. It occurs to him there are times when he misses Wilson, and this is one of them.

"Some shrink you are." He starts with a light jab, pulls his punch a bit to keep her off-guard.

"If you and Roz are having trouble talking . . ." Sarah takes some cookies out of the big jar on the counter.

"I wouldn't say it's trouble exactly." He snags the jar and extracts several cookies. "Trouble means you're actually trying to talk."

"Ah, silent treatment." Sarah puts the cookies into a bag and adds them to the tote. "Who started not talking first?"

"Does it matter?" He munches a cookie, enjoys the chewy oats and sweet raisins.

"Yes." Sarah tucks some fruit into the tote.

"Y'know, it's really not true what they say about apples and doctors."

"Apples aren't in season. I put in two bananas and some blueberries. Who stopped speaking first?"

He rolls his eyes. "She did."

"Why?" Sarah sends him a keen glance. He reads it clearly: _don't mess around by lying to me._

"I was just being myself. That's what your profession advocates, free expression. You know, open, honest communication."

"Gregory." She says it mildly, but it's clearly a return punch in their sparring match.

"Uh oh," he says, doing his best to sound fearful. "I'se in trouble now."

Sarah puts two bottles of water in the tote, zips the top shut and sets it aside. "You're not in trouble. Stop acting like I'm gonna tan your fanny with a belt. My name is not John House." She folds her arms and looks at him, her gaze keen now. "But he sure is haunting you."

That's a sucker punch if he ever saw one. Greg glares at her. "Is not."

"Is too. How long do you plan to keep testing everyone in your life because of him and all the other jerks who hurt you?" She tilts her head and watches him. He braces himself; here comes the lecture. But she says nothing more.

"Testing," he says after a few moments of silence. "Explain."

"I know you, son." To his eternal surprise the deep affection she holds for him shines in her quiet voice. "You think you have to push it till it breaks, shove people to their limits until they lose it and take their anger out on you. Then you can say 'see, I told you so.'" She tilts her head a little and gives him a slight smile. "It isn't surprising you'd keep that as your fallback position. You had a tough childhood and most of the people you've loved in the past haven't done right by you, sure enough. That doesn't mean you let those losers keep controlling you."

"Cheap psychobabble," he accuses, aware his palms are sweaty.

"It's the damn truth and you know it, or you wouldn't look so worried."

"So you're saying your family doesn't have a hold on you. I call bullshit." He stuffs the last of the cookie into his mouth, though he's not sure he'll keep it down the way his gut clenches at the moment. "You were a mess when you got that letter about your mother."

"Well of course I was," she says without hesitation. "Since then I've written to my oldest brother and my cousin about what happened. We got things straightened out."

"_Sure_ you did," he says, though he knows it's not a lie; she wouldn't. Given the conversation, that qualifies as high irony.

"But we aren't talkin' about me," Sarah says. "The way I see it, you have a choice. You can do what you've always done, and you'll get the same result you always get. Or you can choose something different."

"I have," he snaps. "I live here now, I'm married and I'm starting up a clinic. How much more different can things be?"

Sarah shakes her head. "Those are outer changes. They're good ones, I'm not sayin' they aren't. You've worked hard to get where you are, and I'm proud of you." Her warmth touches him through the chill of his apprehension. "But there comes a point for every child of abuse and rejection when they have to decide one simple thing: do I stay in the past where I have to believe everyone's gonna hurt me sooner or later? Or do I move forward and take a chance, trust someone without putting them through a thousand rounds of boot camp first?"

"Yeah, easy-peasy." He grabs the tote. "Thanks for the free advice. I'll give it all the consideration it deserves. Which is none, by the way."

"Greg." That one soft word stops him in mid-flight. "This is important. It's what you've been working toward all this time, what you'll work on for the rest of your life. I'm not sayin' it'll ever be easy, because simple things never are. But take it from me, it's worth it."

"_Why?_" He can't stop the question, though he can hear the anger and bitterness in his voice and winces away from it. "Why is it worth it?"

Sarah doesn't answer him. Instead she turns her head to look out the back door, which stands open to the morning breeze. Just past the box elder tree, Greg can see Gene in the garden, settled into an old wooden chair, his long legs stretched out, head tipped back to the morning sun. One hand rests on the chair Sarah used.

"Finding your dream, claiming it, that's always worth whatever it takes," she says, so quietly he can barely hear her. "Don't cheat yourself out of the chance at heaven."

"_Heaven_. That's bullshit, some stupid myth people cling to when they have nothing else," he scoffs. Sarah swings her head around. She gives him a long, thoughtful look.

"There is a heaven," she says. "It's what you make inside your own mind and heart with that dream you hold. Sometimes you get lucky and find someone to share it with, like you and I did. Don't push that away, son. You might not ever get another chance."

With that she turns from him and goes out the back door. On the way she grabs her battered black Stetson. But she doesn't put it on her head; instead, when she reaches Gene, she places it with care over his face, then gives a squeak of laughter when he sits up, takes the hat and plants it on Sarah's head. He grabs her with gentle hands and hauls her down. She sits on his knee and slips her arms around him, accepts his kiss and gives him one of her own. When it ends he says something and she laughs, full and sweet. He laughs with her, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze.

Greg limps out of the kitchen, and doesn't look back.

Several hours later, it's break time at work and he's claimed one of the shabby recliners for a quick snack and a few levels of Crash Test Dummies. When someone comes in he doesn't look up.

"Hey." Roz stands in the office doorway. She's not in her work clothes, though there's a streak of dirt on her face; her stance is uncertain, as if she's poised for flight. Greg says nothing, just looks at her. She makes a little gesture with her hand. "I thought . . . we could talk."

"You mean right now?" He glances at the clock. "I still have an hour to go and I'm swamped."

Roz doesn't speak for a moment. Then she nods. "Okay. See you at home." And she's gone.

He catches up to her outside the front doors. "You're supposed to argue with me," he says, and hopes the lame joke will get her to respond. To his surprise, when she swings around to face him her expression is one of utter frustration.

"I don't _want_ to argue. All we do is argue. What I want is to know what happened after we came home from Italy. It doesn't matter what I do. You—" She stops.

"Continue," he says, intrigued by this display.

"You married me," she says. "But now I don't know why." With that she walks away, head down, shoulders hunched. Greg stares at her.

"Hey!" he says loudly. She doesn't stop. He considers going after her but by the time he reaches her parking spot she'd be long gone, and he knows she's not in the mood to wait for him.

"Have to cut out early," he says a few minutes later, in Wirth's office. Diane looks up from her paperwork.

"If it's okay with Sandesh it's okay with me," she says. "You all right?"

"'m fine," he mumbles, and heads out to find Singh.

It's half an hour later when he pulls into the driveway. Roz's truck is parked on the street as usual, and the front door's open to let fresh air in through the screen; he can hear the radio, tuned to some country station. That's a smack in the face to him—she knows he hates country.

When he comes in, he finds her in the kitchen. She stands at the counter and places long thin pieces of beef on the chopping board. As he watches, she puts strips of bacon, bread crumbs mixed with egg, shredded cheese and fresh chopped basil on the meat, then rolls up each piece and ties them closed with string. As she places them in a hot skillet to brown he says "I came home early too."

"Why'd you bother?" To his dismay he can hear tears in her quiet voice.

"Maybe I wanted to see what you're making for supper."

"_Bracciole_ and pasta," she says. She still won't look at him. "Good enough, or are you going out?"

He stares at the floor and softly thumps his cane a few times, letting it slip through his fingers. "Good enough," he says. "Tell me why you're home so early."

"I jammed a wire under my fingernail and it pissed me off," she says, and he knows that's a lie, at least about why she's angry.

"Let me see," he says, and moves to her. She doesn't turn, just puts her arm out behind her. Sure enough, when he takes off the band-aid there's a bruise and blood under her nail, and the flesh is red and swollen. As he does so he becomes aware of the song on the radio. "Just to see you smile/I'd do anything that you wanted me to . . ." He ignores the music and examines her injury without any special gentleness. "You need to soak this." She nods and takes her hand away. For some reason her actions annoy him. "I mean it," he snaps. "You could get an infection."

"It's no big deal."

"Big enough to get you home for the afternoon for once," he throws at her.

"It was the last straw." She turns the rolls with a pair of tongs.

"And I'm a whole bale's worth, no doubt."

"_No!_" Roz faces him, and he's dismayed by the tear streaks on her cheeks. "That's not what I said!"

"Oh come on," Greg says. "Just admit you've had it with me."

She stares at him. "You're an _idiot,_" she says finally, and wipes at the tears in her eyes before she turns back to her cooking.

They eat supper in silence, the radio the only sound in the quiet house. Afterward he settles on the couch with a beer and a Phillies game on the tv. As the first inning starts, Roz goes past him in her jumpsuit with toolbox in hand; the screen door slaps shut behind her. A few moments later her truck starts up and she's gone.

He doesn't hear her come home. When he gets up in the morning it's to find her asleep on the couch, still in her jumpsuit. He leaves her there and goes to work, and does his best to feel nothing at all.


	6. Chapter 6

_June 28th_

"Okay, I'll get that order in. It'll be about ten minutes." Sarah smiled at the man, moved to the end of the counter and held one of the swinging doors open. "Need an extra-large pie with pepperoni and green peppers," she called. There was no response from Lou. She tucked pad and pencil in her apron pocket and stepped into the prep area to look for the older man.

"Be right there," he called from the back door. Sarah leaned to the right and caught a glimpse of him with someone—Roz. As Sarah watched they embraced, a hug that spoke of distress and comfort. After a few moments Lou chucked Roz under the chin and said something to make her laugh a little. As he patted her shoulder Sarah came forward. She stopped a few feet away.

"Hey, long time no see," she said, and offered a smile. "Taking something home for supper?"

Roz nodded. She looked tired and her gaze held quiet unhappiness, but she smiled back at Sarah. "Baked ziti."

"I'm betting Lou just put it in the oven," Sarah said. "It'll take a while for it to be done. Come talk with me. We can grab a booth, there's only one customer and he'll be gone in a few minutes."

A short time later they were settled in with two tall iced teas. Roz stirred some sugar into hers.

"I guess you talked with Greg," she said, and didn't look up. "We're—we're . . . not doing so well at the moment."

"Hey," Sarah said, and waited until Roz lifted her head. "The first thing you need to understand is that this isn't about you."

"Don't you have that doctor-patient thing you have to follow?" Roz said after a moment's silence.

"Yeah, I have to be careful about confidentiality. But there's nothing wrong with two close friends talking about husbands and how they drive you crazy sometimes." Sarah squeezed a lemon wedge over her tea and swirled it in with her spoon. "Part of this is about Greg's skill as a master game-player."

Roz nodded. "What's the other part?"

"First things first. This isn't about you."

"How can it not be? I'm supposed to be half of the partnership, the marriage." Roz peeled the paper off her straw. "Right now it feels like I'm the only one who still thinks of it that way."

"You don't know why he married you." When Roz didn't respond, Sarah pushed the point gently. "That's what you're thinking, aren't you?"

"Yes." Roz was barely audible. "Before we came home, it was so good . . . we've never been clingy or sappy, but we could talk. Now . . . I can't say anything, do anything, without him arguing with me."

"You think you're doing something wrong."

"I don't know." Roz sounded miserable. "I thought we wanted the same things, that we were headed in the same direction."

"You are." Sarah sipped her tea. "But you're both so anxious about this step you're taking, it's blinded you and him too." She took the time to add a little sugar to her glass. "Greg's gone through some big changes in the last year. One of the biggest is marrying you. For someone who's believed for a long time that he's unlovable, that's a huge step."

Roz nodded. "He still has trouble with that."

"And when he's unsure of himself or the people around him, he starts testing them." Sarah smiled a little. "I have first-hand knowledge."

"So what do you do when he's like that?"

"What have you been doing?" Sarah asked. Roz sighed.

"I've been trying to show how much I care, but he's acting like I'm pushing him away. Maybe I am, I don't know." She pushed her straw down and let it bob back up.

"Have you actually told him you love him? You know, said the words?"

"He always says he wants action, not words."

"That's not true. He needs to hear you tell him," Sarah said gently.

"How can I say anything when he's not listening?" Roz snapped. "He either makes fun of me or he says I'm just telling him what he wants to hear!"

"Believe me, he's listening. He just doesn't want you to think he is. It's part of the game," Sarah said. "Here's what I've found works best with him: total honesty and don't let up no matter what, but also show him you love him."

"I don't understand," Roz said after a few moments of silence.

"Okay. You give me an example of what's gone wrong recently and we'll see what we can do."

Roz hunched her shoulders. "Last—last night. I came in late and he . . . he said something snotty about my caring more about a building than I did about him." She lifted her head and gave Sarah a defiant glare. "He's the one who wants the damn clinic finished by the end of July! If I don't work on it in the evenings it won't get done!"

"Have you said that to him?"

"_Yes!_" Roz pushed her tea away. "He either tells me I'm full of it or he just ignores me!"

"I would suggest you stop working in the evenings," Sarah said. Roz made a frustrated noise. "No, now hear me out. You're already putting in a ten hour day, sis. By the time you come home you're wiped out. I know you'd rather spend the time with him. Anyway, there's no reason why Greg should eat his cake and have it too, which is what he's doing."

Roz thought about that. "You mean he gets to pick on me for giving him what he wants," she said slowly.

"Yup. He's great at extracting things from people while he mocks them, and sometimes he can be very cruel while he's doing it." Sarah took a swallow of tea. "Just make sure you tell him. Let him know you're onto what he's doing. Then show him you love him anyway. You do, don't you?"

Roz just nodded. Sarah reached out to put her hand over her friend's. "Communication is your most powerful counter to his game. He'll still give you a hard time, but I think you'll find if you continue to use honesty and love, it'll have an effect." She paused. "He'll always test you from time to time. He's worried he'll fail."

"I know." Roz glanced at Sarah. "He's having trouble sleeping. I hear him get up at night."

"Do you still read to each other before you go to bed?"

"We haven't done that in a while . . . you think it would help?"

"Yes. It's something both of you enjoy and share together. I'd suggest you begin reading again tonight, even if he doesn't join you."

"You . . . you really think it'll work?" Roz sounded sad.

"The only way you'll know is if you do it. Greg has trouble with intimacy, but if you show him you want to be with him, he'll open up eventually." Sarah smiled and gave Roz's hand a gentle squeeze. "So will you."

"This is that other part you were talking about earlier," Roz said. "I don't know if I want to hear this."

"You need to." Sarah didn't hesitate. "You're worried you're not good enough for him. It's making it difficult for you to see how much your love means to Greg. He told me he came home early to talk to you the other day when you missed having lunch together." She smiled a little. "If Greg ever changes his schedule it's usually to avoid people, not to meet with them."

"I just . . ." Roz sighed. "I can't help thinking he sees something in me that isn't there."

"You've always had a tough time believing you're worthy of someone's love and affection, even though Poppi Lou and Nana brought you up right, sis. Now you're married and going through a rough patch fairly early on. I'd be more surprised if you weren't having trouble."

"I . . . I know Greg's not a man to lie about his feelings," Roz said after a time. "I know his marrying me was huge. I just—I don't want to fail him."

"The only way you could do that is if you walk away," Sarah said. "So what are you gonna do when you get home tonight?"

"Peel off my clothes and belly dance into the living room wearing a plastic wrap bikini with a pan of baked ziti in my hands," Roz said dryly. Sarah laughed and gave Roz a pat before she let go.

"Let him know you get what he's up to. Then show him you love him. If you need help, call me. He'll already know you talked with me, so don't worry about that. I'll back you up if he gives you a hard time."

"Thanks." Roz got up, leaned in and kissed Sarah's cheek. "You're the best," she said softly as Lou walked up with a covered aluminum pan in his hands, along with a white paper bag.

"I added a batch of garlic knots. That way neither one of you will kiss anyone else for at least the next two days," he said with a twinkle in his dark eyes. Roz took the food and gave Lou a one-armed hug.

"Let us know how things go," Sarah called as Roz hurried out the door. When she was gone she glanced at Lou. "Garlic knots. Nice touch."

"Better than knocking their heads together." Lou sat down in the booth. "Stubborn as mules, those two."

"Yes, they are. But when they find their way through this, it'll make them stronger." Sarah sipped her tea.

"Speaking from experience?" Lou chuckled when she rolled her eyes. "Well, me too when it comes to that. I loved my wife more than life itself, but no one could dig their heels in deeper than she could during a fight. _Porca miseria, _that woman could drive me insane."

"Pig misery," Sarah said, delighted. "Have to remember that one." She looked over as the front door bell jingled. "Looks like the t-ball team's here."

"Five baskets of chicken nuggets and two mac and cheese pizzas," Lou said. "Better get started." He got to his feet and put a hand on Sarah's shoulder. "Thanks for helping my girl."

"My privilege," she said with a smile, and headed out to herd the team into booths and take the orders.

[H]

Roz came in the back door to the kitchen and put the food on the counter. The house was dark, but faint light came from the living room; she could hear the tv and the play-by-play of a baseball game. Quietly she put the ziti and bread in the oven and set it on warm, then turned on the light over the stove. With that she headed into the living room. Greg was stretched out on the couch, beer in hand. The remains of a peanut butter sandwich sat on the coffee table. As she came in his gaze shot to her, then back to the game. Roz came over to the couch, bent down and kissed his forehead.

"Hey," she said. "Brought home some dinner. Let me get cleaned up and we can eat and watch the game."

Vivid blue eyes scrutinized her with disbelief. "What's the big occasion?"

"I'm home from work," she said with a smile. "Back shortly."

When she came out he hadn't moved, but she felt his eyes on her all the way into the kitchen. She'd put on one of his tee shirts and a pair of old cutoffs; the evening was warm, and it felt good to have her thick cotton jumpsuit off for the first time all day.

It was quick work to bring out two plates of food, silverware and a couple of cold beers. "Move your feet," she said, and placed everything on the coffee table.

"I already ate," Greg said.

"You had a sandwich. This is a real supper," she said, and picked up a plate. After a moment Greg did the same. "Who's playing?"

"Braves and Marlins," he said, and took a fork. "So what's the bribe for?"

"It's not a bribe," Roz said. "It's supper."

"And I suppose I get to clean up while you go to the clinic," he said around a mouthful of ziti. She shook her head.

"I'm not going to the clinic. In fact I'm done working in the evenings."

Greg put down his fork and gave her a hard stare. "You talked to Sarah," he said. It was more accusation than statement.

"Yes I did," Roz said. She ate a bite of ziti.

"She's got no business telling anyone what to do when she's obsessed over finding the perfect secretary." He paused. "So this is your version of 'Can This Marriage Be Saved?'."

Roz winced at the pain well-hidden behind the sarcasm. "It's a course correction." She put down her fork. "I don't like not talking to you and then arguing all the time when we do say something. I . . . I miss being friends. Being lovers, not just two people who live in the same house and share a bed."

Greg was silent for a few moments. "I suppose that's my fault," he muttered. Roz shook her head.

"I get prickly when I'm scared and push people away," she said. "Sometimes I wonder what you saw to make you want to marry me—"

"Don't talk like that," he snapped. "You sound ridiculous."

"It's the truth," she said. "I'm just—just trying to explain." She stared at her plate. "I feel like I can't say or do anything right, so I—I sort of stop talking. I'm sorry. I should have told you what was wrong."

"Don't apologize when it's something someone else told you to say." Now he sounded mad. Roz put down her plate, took a deep breath. Her hands shook; she folded her arms to hide the tremors.

"No one told me to say that. I mean it." She looked at him. Yeah, he was mad. "Everything I've said has been the truth."

"Interesting." He picked up a garlic knot and ate half of it with one bite, chewed slowly as he studied her. Roz waited. She knew he'd set her up for a sucker punch. He swallowed and downed a swig of beer, belched. "So what brought on this sudden fit of penance?"

"I miss you," she said, and couldn't go on. She unfolded her arms, picked up her bottle and drank some beer.

"That's it? I'd guess you're probably ovulating and horny as hell," Greg said. "If so, you don't have to put yourself through all this groveling, I'm happy to oblige. I've been giving my right hand a workout lately."

Roz didn't look away. "I'm not groveling. I meant what I said. I miss you and I want our friendship back. And yeah, I'd love to bang you, but not if you're going to leave twenty bucks on the dresser." She couldn't resist a shot back. To her surprise he gave a snort of amusement.

"Cheap date." He watched her closely. "What if I say no to all this open and honest communication?"

Roz shrugged. Disappointment welled up inside. "Your loss." She set down her beer and picked up her plate. "My plan for tonight is to watch the game. Then I'm going to bed. It's been a long day."

"You think mine hasn't." It was pure provocation.

"I didn't say that. Five hours of boredom is probably worse than ten hours of crawling around in basements and attics. I'd rather be doing something to keep me occupied." She glanced at him. "I never realized that before."

Greg said nothing, only picked up his fork and shoveled in an enormous bite of ziti. Roz managed a few more mouthfuls, then took the rest to the kitchen and packed it for her lunch.

She stayed awake through three innings, but her long day caught up with her. She was jolted out of a doze by a hard push on her thigh. It turned out to be from Greg's foot.

"Go to bed." There was no sympathy in his voice. Roz blinked and looked at the tv.

"Who's ahead?"

"You couldn't care less and your snoring is making it hard to hear the announcers. Go to bed."

She got to her feet, deeply hurt by his coldness. "Okay," she said quietly.

"What's the matter? No snotty remark, no lecture?" It was an open taunt. Roz didn't turn back.

"Good night," she said. Without another word she headed for the bedroom.

Roz sat up for a while with the book of poetry she'd brought home from the library on Kris's recommendation. When Greg didn't show she put the book away, turned off the light and lay in the darkness, sad and discouraged, until sleep claimed her.


	7. Chapter 7

_June 29th_

She wasn't sure exactly what woke her—some soft noise. Roz sat up and listened. Greg's side of the bed was empty but the sheets were rumpled and still warm, so he'd just left. After a moment she saw the bathroom door was closed but light shone out at the bottom. She padded over, hesitated, gave a soft knock.

"What?" Greg sounded strange.

"Can I come in?" she asked softly. There was no answer. She took a breath and opened the door.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub in his tee shirt and briefs. His right leg was stretched in front of him; the toilet seat cover was down with a towel spread over it, and medical supplies laid out ready to use. But what she saw was the great scar, and around it reddened areas shaped like the pads he used with the TENS unit. There were blisters here and there too, small and angry-looking.

"Oh my god," she whispered, and knelt down beside him, horrified. "Greg, what _happened?_"

"Go back to bed," he snapped. She shook her head and dared to put a gentle hand on his left knee.

"What can I do to help?" she asked.

"You can leave me alone." He pulled his knee away from her touch and hissed as the movement jarred his bad leg.

"No, I won't do that," Roz said. She took his hand in hers and held on when he tried to yank free. After a moment he gripped her so tightly she felt the blood leave her fingers. He trembled, and she could see his pulse was fast. "What happened?"

"Turned the unit up too high for too long," he said. He wouldn't look at her.

"Do you need to go to the ER?" she asked, and put her other hand over his, worried out of her mind for him. "Please tell me how I can help."

He stared at her, his gaze piercing. Finally he nodded at the supplies. "Give me the antibiotic ointment," he said. "I'll put it on while you make eight lengths of paper tape, about—about four inches long each."

Step by step she helped him dress the burns. When it was done she said "Where would you be most comfortable? Couch or bed?"

"Bed." When she helped him up he gave an involuntary groan. Roz slipped her arm around his waist, slung his arm over her shoulder and helped him stabilize his balance before they moved slowly to the bed. She made him as comfortable as possible, then sat next to him.

"No lecture. I'm impressed." He said it in mockery, but his hand still held hers in a firm grip.

"No," she said. "How long have you been hurting like this?"

"Ah, here it comes after all," he said, and stopped when she brought his hand to her lips to brush a kiss over the knuckles.

"How long?" she asked quietly.

"Couple of weeks," he said with some reluctance. Roz closed her eyes. She'd first noticed him getting up at night about two weeks ago.

"I'm calling Gene," she said after a brief silence.

"It's three a.m."

"I don't care what time it is," she said with some impatience. "You're not waiting till morning." She took the cordless phone from its cradle on the nightstand and speed-dialed Sarah's number, while she still held Greg's hand.

"Mmm . . . Roz?" Sarah woke up fast. "What's wrong?"

"I need to speak to Gene," Roz said quietly. Greg rolled his eyes, but she caught a flash of relief in them and knew she'd done the right thing.

"Okay. Hang on," Sarah said. There was a soft murmur, and a faint rustle of sheets.

"Roz?" Gene sounded puzzled but more or less awake.

"Greg needs your help," she said simply. "Can you come over?"

"I'll be right there. Does he need to go to the ER?"

"He says no."

"Okay. I'm on the way."

Sarah came with Gene; they arrived ten minutes after the call, which meant they must have gotten dressed and driven across the village at record speed. Together they examined Greg, spoke quietly with him. Roz saw him relax a bit as they talked, and wished she didn't feel so inadequate. But at least she'd helped to some small degree.

"You did the right thing," Gene said before he and Sarah left, his dark eyes kind. "We'll get things taken care of later this morning when the office opens up. For now I've doubled his meds. If anything else happens don't hesitate to call, okay?"

Sarah hugged her. "That goes for me too," she said. "I'm here to help both of you."

When they'd left Roz went into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed. Greg looked a little better, the lines of pain in his face less evident. "This is where I'm supposed to express my undying gratitude for you sticking your nose in, no doubt." He spoke in a rough, sardonic tone that stung. Roz hesitated, doing her best to keep her expression neutral.

"I'll sleep on the couch," she said, and began to rise. Greg grabbed her hand.

"No," he said, and the sarcasm was gone. "No . . . stay." He swallowed. "Please."

Roz stared down at their hands. "Okay," she said. "Do you—do you need anything? Some water or—or—" She took a sudden breath as tears filled her eyes. "Are you really all right?"

"Hey." When she didn't look up he sighed. "It's not life or death."

"You scared me," she said simply.

He made a noise of derision. "I'll be fine."

She let out a shuddering breath. "I'm taking two days off. You're taking the rest of the week."

"I just said—"

"I'll call us both in later on," she said, let go of his hand and moved the sheet to get underneath it.

"So I have no say in this," he said, clearly incredulous.

"No. Go to sleep." She turned her back on him and wiped the tears out of her eyes with little secret movements.

"For god's sake," Greg said. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"You're crying." He gripped her shoulder and rolled her on her back, peered into her face. "_Jesus._"

Roz put her arm over her eyes. "I'm worried about you. Sue me."

"Come on, you're a rational-minded electrician chick. You don't do cheap emotions."

"I love you, you idiot. That's not a cheap emotion," she shot back. "God knows why, you're a goddamn pain in the ass and you drive me fucking insane. I guess I have a thing for crazy asshat morons."

There was a little silence, followed by a reluctant chuckle. "I guess you do." His hand came to rest on her shoulder. "You're too far away." She moved nearer a cautious inch or two in an attempt not to jar his bad leg. "Get _over_ here," he growled, and hauled her close with a grunt of pain.

"Don't," she said, alarmed.

"Oh, stop it. I won't fall apart." She snuggled in against him and he allowed it. His hand slid down in a tentative sort of way to cradle her hip. Silence fell, and Roz thought he was asleep when he said "I . . . I didn't mean to scare you."

She put a hand on his chest, felt the steady bump of his heart under her palm. "I'm glad you let me in," she said softly, and knew he understood the double meaning.

"Shut up and get some sleep," he said, but his hand caressed her hip, slow and gentle.

[H]

"How long has the pain been this bad?" Sarah asks.

Greg leans back and fights not to rub his thigh. Without the TENS the ache has returned to the nightmare he's lived with for years, though it's muted by the extra meds he takes now, courtesy of his pain management specialist. "Eternity springs to mind," he says. Sarah raises an eyebrow and gives him the mom look. "Uh . . . a few weeks."

"And you never thought to tell the people who care about you that you were having trouble?" She says it gently, but he still bristles.

"It's my _trouble_ to deal with," he snaps.

"That's old programming showing up," Sarah says, and somehow there is no judgment in her voice. "No one here will dismiss your pain. Roz called us at three in the morning to get you some help and we came out to do just that, glad to do so too. Do you think any of us believe the chronic pain you suffer is trivial or non-existent?"

"You think it's in my head," he accuses.

"There's definitely an emotional component, yes. But you have a big chunk of your thigh muscle missing. There's no way it's all in your head or your heart. In fact I'd say most of what you feel is physical." Sarah leans back. "Either you trust us or you don't."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes it is." She is inexorable. "There's enough pain in life without adding more just for the hell of it. You also gave your wife a bad scare. She's had personal experience with burns, if you remember."

He squirms at that reminder and sees Roz's face in his memory, pale with fear for him. It's not a look he's seen often on her, and it stabs at him like a knife to the heart. "She wouldn't have known if you hadn't filled her head with a bunch of crap about communication and all that other junk you psycho-babblers just love to push on people," he snaps.

"And you think that would have been a good thing?" Sarah comes right back at him. "It's better to hide your pain?" She shakes her head. "Bullshit." There's that familiar twang, the word drawn out in her soft drawl: ___ shih-yit. _He finds it an odd but substantial source of reassurance. "You know better than that by now. Roz loves you. She wants you to be as pain-free as possible, so of course she wanted to help you. You're bein' pig-headed about this." She raises both brows now. "So why haven't you two been talking?"

"She already told you I'm a jerk," he mutters.

"No she didn't. Stop fishing for information and tell me what's going on."

"Nothing," he growls. "Stay out of it, it's none of your business."

"Son, it's very much my business when I see you miserable and afraid." Sarah's soft voice drives the knife of guilt deeper. "Talk to me please."

"Nothing to say." He contradicts himself in the next breath. "I—I should never have married anyone, shouldn't even have thought about it."

"Why?"

"Don't be an idiot." He wants to get up, walk away, hit something, someone—any or all of the above.

"Tell me anyway," Sarah says.

"I'm damaged," he says at last. The words stick in his throat. _Shouldn't say this,_ he thinks, and hears his father's words echo in his mind. _Shouldn't show weakness._ "I can't—can't face pain. Mine, anyone else's." His hands shake. "Never have, never will. I saw my wife's face last night, when she looked at my damn leg. I don't want someone scared for me that way. It's pointless."

"That's a part of loving someone. It comes with the territory." Sarah leans forward, puts out her hand and touches the gold band on his ring finger. "In sickness and health, for richer or poorer, good, bad and indifferent, all of it, not just what you pick and choose."

"Then I choose none."

"You've already chosen. It's up to you to find the strength to stick with that decision."

"I can't," he says. He feels helpless, he hates himself for his cowardice. "I can't."

Sarah puts her hand over his, turns his palm up and clasps it. He wants to tug free, but it feels too good, that simple human contact. "Why?"

"I've already failed her once. I'll just keep doing it."

"How have you failed her?"

"She loves me and she thinks I—" He stops. "I can't love her the way she wants me to."

"How do you think she wants you to love her?" Sarah's hand squeezes his gently.

"I can't be strong for her," he says in anguish. "It's just not there! How many times do I have to say it? The thought of hurting her terrifies me and yet I do it to her all the time! I push her away, I make her cry-I—I can't—"

"Listen to me," and she puts her other hand over his, that light as air touch he's come to treasure and find comfort in, despite his best efforts. "Roz has already shown you her own weaknesses, and you still love her. She'll do the same with you. That's what friendship is, you know."

"We're not friends," he says. Sarah shakes her head, though her touch doesn't lessen.

"Well, there's your trouble," she says with a slight smile. "Roz considers you her best friend. Can't really love someone without being friends with them."

"Millions would disagree," he points out.

"And millions would be wrong. Sure, you can have great sex and that's fun while it lasts, I'm not knockin' it. I had my share of that years ago and enjoyed it. But sooner or later if you have half a brain in your head, you want more. You want something that lasts beyond one night together, or a string of nights. Sex without any commitment gets lonely." She looks at him. "Doesn't it?"

"Has a lot less baggage," he mutters in defiance.

True, but baggage can hold all sorts of interesting things, and not just bad stuff." Her small hands clasp his gently. They offer a sense of reassurance and steadiness he clings to in craven desperation. "Roz is a good friend. She's loyal to a fault, she's generous and kind and pretty damn smart, she has a fantastic sense of humor, and if you need it she'll give you tea and sympathy and then kick your ass off a cliff." That startles a weak chuckle out of him because it's true. "There, see? You know I'm right." Sarah smiles at him. "Give her a chance to be your friend. You won't be sorry."

After the session is over, Roz comes over to him as he relaxes in the easy chair he claimed as his long ago. "Hey," she says softly. "I was thinking, maybe you'd like to stay here for a few days. It would be easier for Gene to keep an eye on things, you know?" She speaks with her head bowed a little but he can see her expression, full of worry and what he knows is love, her eyes a deep moss green, the color they turn when she's got strong feelings inside her.

"Good idea," he says, and waits for her to say she'll join him. But she doesn't say anything. "You stay too," he says at last, but he's not reluctant when he hesitates; he's afraid she'll say no.

Surprise brightens Roz's angular features, which makes him feel both guilty and angry that she'd assume he wouldn't want her here—still, after the last few weeks it's a valid belief. She nods her head. "Oh . . . okay. I'll bring some clothes from home for us."

"And the damn cat. Otherwise he'll think we've abandoned him."

That makes her smile a little. "All right. He'll have fun stalking bunnies in the back meadow and getting spoiled by Sarah." Her hand lifts to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "How do you feel?" she asks softly.

"Stupid. But all right," he says. "You?"

"Better now." She hesitates and he knows she was going to say something more and decided against it. "We can do lunch out here." She gets up and leaves the room; her slender body moves with quiet grace. He watches her go, and wonders yet again how he ended up with someone he doesn't deserve in the least. It's not a new thought, and he knows it won't be the last time he thinks it.

After they eat he crashes on the couch for a nap. The oscillating fan keeps the room cool, while the tv murmurs in the background. His leg is bearable; the meds have him a little spaced but mostly sleepy. It's a warm, still day outside, bathed in sunshine, though the curtains and blinds are drawn to keep the interior of the house cool.

Now and then he wakes up and hears Sarah and Roz in the kitchen as they talk and laugh. It's a homely sound, comforting. Eventually Hellboy curls up on the top of the couch cushion next to Greg's head, a convenient spot for being petted and scritched under the chin. It's a peaceful afternoon. Both Greg and the cat rest in the knowledge they're safe and watched over.

Before supper Gene sits down with him for a consult. "I called Will," he says. "He's coming here over the weekend with a new unit for you to try."

"He's a surgeon," Greg says. "He'll want to cut."

"Only if you agree to it," Gene says calmly. "In the meantime we'll keep you on doubled meds. How's the pain?"

"Okay," Greg says. "Can't move around much or the blisters will break open."

"That's just as well anyway for the next few days." Gene studies him with a steady look. There's compassion and a glint of humor in his gaze. "Tell me if you get stir-crazy, though. We can arrange for some time out of the house."

Later, after the supper dishes have been washed up and everyone's congregated in the living room, Gene comes in with the six-string Martin in hand and sits in the easy chair next to the couch.

"Hey babe," he says to Sarah, "go get your new ax."

To Greg's delight his shrink starts to blush. "No."

"Come on," Gene wheedles. "You've been practicing for a month now. You're good enough, I heard you last night and you're just fine."

"What new ax?" Greg asks, glad for any distraction that takes attention away from his own problems.

"I bought her something when I did a consult in Texas," Gene says. "But she's too shy to play in front of anyone. She won't even play for me."

"Michael Eugene," Sarah says. She's red up to her hairline now.

"Hey, you're the one who always encourages us to try new things," Greg says.

"Don't you start too!"

"Come on," Gene says. Sarah gets to her feet and stalks out of the room. She returns a few moments later with something in her hands. Greg cranes his head.

"A _mandolin?_" he says, diverted. Sarah stops dead.

"The first person who makes a crack, I'm tellin' y'all I'm outta here," she warns, and sits down. She glares at Gene, who just laughs.

"Aw shut up, you know you wanna show off," he says. "You choose the first song."

Sarah bows her head and tunes the instrument. Then she starts to strum, looking right at Gene with a defiant stare. "He's in the jailhouse now, he's in the jailhouse now/I told him over again, to quit drinkin' whiskey lay offa that gin/He's in the jailhouse now . . ."

Roz laughs as Gene obediently follows Sarah's lead and sings harmony. His dark eyes gleam with mischief. He can do a decent yodel too, something Greg already knew from a few pickup sessions after the Flatliners rehearsals. Gene played 'Muleskinner Blues' and did it full justice.

When the song is done Roz applauds. "More!" she says. Sarah rolls her eyes.

"Don't encourage him," she says, but she smiles when she says it.

Gene ends up playing 'Salty Dog'. He flashes his pirate's grin at Sarah when he sings the chorus, to make her miss her pitch on the harmony. But she manages a creditable break on the mandolin between the last verse and chorus. It's clear she's worked hard, and her technique is pretty good for a beginner. The instrument is a beauty, a little battered with age but possessed of a warm sweet sound, and a good strong voice with plenty of chop. When they're done she hands it over for Greg to look at.

"I found it in Austin," Gene says. "Fiddlers Green had it out in the showroom the whole time I was lookin' for a guitar, and it just called my wife's name."

The evening progresses as the sun goes down and the shadows lengthen. Soon Sarah gets up to make the rounds. She turns on a lamp here and there to add pools of golden light to the room, detours to the kitchen and brings back a jug of iced tea and glasses with ice, along with a plateful of cookies. It's pleasant to lie there on the couch as the others talk and laugh, drink cold tea and munch cookies. Roz's head rests against his good leg, a reassuring slight weight. Though he's not a participant he's still in the circle, known and accepted, and it feels good.

Eventually the group drifts apart to get ready for bed. Gene supervises the change of dressings on Greg's leg; it's already begun to heal, the burns reduced in color and size. Roz goes into the downstairs bathroom and emerges in one of his tee shirts and her silk bathrobe. Quietly she comes over and crouches down beside him.

"Do you want me to sleep with you?" she asks softly.

He's tempted to say yes, but he doesn't want to treat her as if she's a favorite teddy bear, or nothing more than a warm body for his comfort. In some obscure way he knows it would demean both of them, even if she's not aware of it. He shakes his head finally.

"Okay. Do you need anything?"

"Just go to bed," he mutters. Roz puts a gentle hand on his undamaged leg.

"Sleep well," she says, and gets to her feet. He envies her the ability to do so without the need of assistance or a prop; he knows it's a mean thought, but he can't help it. After a long day full of pain he'd hoped was gone for good, he can't think any other way. He doesn't watch her go to the stairs.

It feels good to be back in what was once his room, and pretty much still is. He turns on the box fan to get air moving and climbs in, careful and slow. The window's been opened and brings in a soft night breeze and the sound of crickets. He shifts the pillows around till he's comfortable, arm behind his head. But his mind won't settle down. He struggles against the need for sleep and the insistent voice of his anxieties. They've chased him around all day long, pestered him for attention, and now with no distractions they push out everything else, fill his mind . . . until he hears music from the living room. Sarah has the six-string now. She's strums it softly. Greg glances at his door; it's open an inch or two, his old signal that he'd like to have her play him to sleep. He hadn't meant to do it, but all the same the familiar ritual eases his heart like nothing else could.

After a time her soft, clear voice reaches him over the notes of a gentle melody. He listens carefully, because he knows this song is her comment on what's happened.

_love is certain, love is kind_

_love is yours and love is mine_

_but it isn't something that we find_

_it's something that we do_

_it's holdin' tight and lettin' go_

_it's flyin' high and layin' low_

_let your strongest feelings show_

_and your weakness too_

_it's a little and a lot to ask,_

_an endless and a welcome task_

_love isn't something that we have _

_it's something that we do_

He lies in the darkness, aware of tightness in his chest and a lump in his throat. It feels as if he's struggled with fear forever, terrified deep inside of what failure will mean, and equally frightened of success. He's never ventured this far away from the safety net of someone else to deal with his everyday routine, and the consequences of his actions—insane though they might be at times, they're necessary, yet without an intercessory authority it's suicidal to pursue his profession in the manner he does. Cuddy gave him what he needed, and so did Wilson.

_At a cost,_ that small voice deep within whispers. _Now you have people who truly support you and yet you push them away, especially the one who committed herself to you without hesitation. You can't complain about failure when you planted the seeds yourself. _

_we help to make each other all that we can be_

_though we can find our strength and inspiration independently_

_the way we work together is what sets our love apart_

_so closely that we can't tell where I end and where you start_

There is a part of him, the part that feels far too deeply, sees much too clearly, that's longed for what can only be termed a soulmate. It's mawkish and imbecilic and a far worse delusion than almost anything else he can think of; he's kept it locked up deep within for many years, never to see the light of day, but it's still true. Stacy came the closest to that hidden desire, but even she was only a pale flicker of light compared to the blaze he's conjured in his imagination, in the early hours when pain and despair drive him to examine the contents of his heart's lockbox. He wants what Sarah sings about, and yet he won't ever have it. He's destroyed every relationship he's ever been in, and this one will be no exception.

_we're on a road that has no end_

_and each day we begin again_

_love's not just something that we're in_

_it's something that we do_

The words are simple and true, and he wants with every atom of his being to believe in them, but it's not possible.

_there's no request too big or small_

_we give ourselves, we give our all_

_love isn't someplace that we fall_

_it's something that we do_

Hot tears gather on his lashes. He wipes them away and realizes the music's stopped about the time a soft knock sounds at his door.

"Yeah," he says. Sarah comes in. Quietly she perches on the edge of the easy chair by his bed. She looks at him, and even in the semi-gloom he can see understanding and compassion in her features.

The next thing he knows she sits on the bed and his head is in her lap on a pillow, his face pressed into her belly, her arm about his shoulders. There are no crashing waves of wild emotion this time, no terrible storm; instead he lets the tears fall as his body shakes. He soaks up the comfort and reassurance Sarah offers him; her hand rubs his back in a slow, gentle circle. She knew he'd need this because she always knows. It mystifies him, but he's also grateful beyond words.

"This . . . this is stupid," he says eventually. His breath hitches a little.

"Shhhh . . ." Sarah lifts her hand, strokes his temple. "Go to sleep. It'll be better in the morning."

The last thing he hears is her soft breath and the rustle of the slight breeze, mingled together.

'_In the Jailhouse Now', Jimmie Rodgers_

'_Salty Dog Blues', Flatt & Scruggs_

'_Something That We Do', Skip Ewing & Clint Black_


	8. Chapter 8

_June 29th_

The sun sends beams of light into the room when Greg opens his eyes. He blinks, slowly comes awake. Sarah isn't there, but the pillow under his head is still placed where she put it, and he has the sense she hasn't been gone for long. His guess is confirmed when there's a knock at the door and her soft voice says "It's me." She comes in with two mugs of coffee and some buttered toast, puts them on the nightstand by his bed, takes a mug for herself and sits down on the easy chair. "Good morning. I brought you something so you can take your meds." She looks a little tired.

"You were here all night?" He sits up slowly and holds his ruined thigh out of reflex.

"Most of it," Sarah says. There is no resentment in her quiet words, just simple statement of fact. "I went out on the couch for a couple of hours and came back in around sunrise. When it looked like you were starting to wake up I thought it would be a good idea to get you something to eat." She sips her coffee. "How's the pain?"

"Two," he says, a little surprised to find it that low—practically nonexistent by his standards. "Your hip's bothering you." He's noticed she favors it a bit.

"It's fine, just a little morning stiffness. I had Diane check it out last week. There are some arthritic changes on both sides, slightly worse on the side I bruised, but nothing out of the ordinary for a woman my age." She lowers the mug. "We need to talk about how you burned your leg."

_Damn._ He'd hoped she wouldn't go after him for that. "Nothing to talk about," he says in a pathetic attempt at nonchalance.

"We both know the TENS unit is a prescribed method of treatment, even if it isn't an actual drug. You didn't come to Gene or Roz or me about your pain, you decided to self-medicate. That's an addict's reaction." She says it without condemnation, but the truth is still there.

"Stands to reason, then."

"Yes and no," she says, still without judgment. "You're an addict. But reason had nothing to do with this. This was fear, plain and simple. Still is." She reaches out, takes his hand in hers. "Isn't it?"

He looks away. After some time he gives one slow nod. Her hand tightens on his gently.

"Do you trust me?"

"It's not that simple—"

"Yes it is." Her hold stays steady. "What do you think would happen if you came to me and said 'I'm scared'?"

"You'd hold me tight so I could feel your boobs?"

"Only if your name is Gene Goldman." At the sound of her soft laugh the tension in the room lightens somewhat. Greg faces her. She watches him with that warm, steady regard he always finds so inexplicable, and yet it's as precious to him as gold to a miser. "What do you think would happen?" she asks again.

"I don't know," he says finally.

"Yes you do. You're afraid I'll get mad or push you away, or ridicule you because you're scared." She shakes her head. "I haven't done that, and I won't. No one else here has done that either, and they won't."

"You can't guarantee someone else's behavior."

"In this one instance I can." He doesn't answer. "I'm not saying the world at large won't give you grief. But those closest to you, the ones who know and love you, they won't." Sarah says it slow and quiet, gives him time to think about her words. "You keep pushing us away. When we try again you push harder. Eventually we're so distant you can't see us anymore, and then you decide we've abandoned you and you were right all along."

"Might as well get it over with," he says. "It'll happen sooner or later. It—it always does."

"Hasn't happened here." Sarah's soft words remind him that she took him back after he hurt her deeply, whether she deserved it or not. "How about it doesn't happen at all? Give us a chance. We love you, we care about you and we want to help."

"_Why__?_" It's the question he's asked from the beginning, when he sat in Sarah's office in Mayfield, and watched her watch him. "Why do you—" He stops because he can't bring himself to say the words.

"Why do I care about you?" She tilts her head. "I think at the moment it's more important to refute the statement you've been shouting at us since day one."

"Which is?" he snaps when she doesn't go on.

"You're not worth loving, so we might as well walk away."

That's a direct hit. He pulls his hand away.

"There's plenty to love about you." Sarah's soft voice is like a surgeon's scalpel; with one clean, deep stroke she cuts away the scar tissue and opens the old wound, though her intent is to heal, not harm—he knows that much even as he steels himself against the pain to come. "But you've decided it's better to be unloved, to lock away everything that makes you human, than to risk getting hurt again. Now I'll give you this, you've gone through a hell of a lot of misery, son. The people around you who should have loved you right, they didn't. They abused, rejected and abandoned you because they're flawed and weak and all too human. So it's understandable that you'd think everyone is the same way." She actually dares to reach out and reclaim his hand. He's too astonished by her boldness to push her away. "The people closest to you here, Roz, me, Gene—we won't do that. We might get mad, hurt, upset, but we won't stop loving you."

"Unconditional love," he sneers. "That's a crock and you know it."

"Do I?" She smiles at him. "Then how do you explain my actions with you?" He's silent, as his gaze drops away from hers. "Sometimes the only way to do something is to just do it. In this case, it's giving us a chance to show you we can be trusted." Her thumb strokes the back of his hand. "You've made a good start with me, I'll give you that and well done, but I'm not the important one. I'd suggest you concentrate on Roz."

"She can't stand the sight of me," he mutters. He knows he's being childish, and yet he's unable to help himself.

"She loves you deeply and is scared to death she'll do something so wrong you'll walk away for good." When he lifts his head to deny this Sarah smiles just a little, her sea-green eyes bright. "Gotcha."

He stares at her. "That's so not fair."

"Nope," she agrees cheerfully. "You and Roz are alike in some ways. You both had terrible childhood experiences with your parents, you're convinced you're not worth a plugged nickel, and you value action above words." She sips her coffee. "Eat your toast so you can take your meds."

"Power-tripping control freak," he throws at her, but he does as she suggests.

"Never said I wasn't," she laughs. "Back to the issue at hand. Roz is trying hard to show you she cares by working herself into the ground on the clinic. When she goes out there and spends another two or three hours working on top of a ten or twelve hour day, that's her way of saying 'I love you'."

"It's her way of being a martyr," he says around a mouthful of toast.

"Roz has never done this for anyone else," Sarah says. Greg pauses with the last corner of toast halfway to his mouth. "_Never_," she adds for emphasis. "Rick Hutch asked her once to rewire his ovens—oh shut up," she says when he raises his brows. "The man does own a bakery. He wanted it done for free because they were dating on and off back then. She laughed in his face and told him he'd pay union rates or get someone else. He was so pissed off he gave her a dozen burnt doughnuts and told her to get the hell out of his establishment. She told him to shove his ovens and that was that."

Greg chews his toast as he absorbs this tasty tidbit of information, and the new conclusions it offers.

"When she offers to help, let her." Sarah gives his hand a little squeeze and lets go. "Start with that and see what happens." She finishes her coffee and stands up, stretches. "Come out when you're ready, I'm making blueberry pancakes and sausage for breakfast."

He has cause to remember her words a short time later when Roz shows up just as he's ready to change the dressing on his thigh. The burns are already nearly healed, just a few blisters still to deal with.

"Could I . . . do you need some help?" She stands just inside the doorway, looks uncertain and concerned and really cute with her hair ruffled from sleep and her tank top tucked half in, half out of her sleep pants. Greg pats the spot next to him.

"Sit."

It turns out she does most of the work while he watches; he'd forgotten she took care of her own dressings at home after her accident. As a consequence she's thorough, neat and fast. While she tapes the pad in place he stares at her burned arm. The scars lost their raw pinkness long ago and are pale silver now, fading to her natural color, but they'll always be noticeable. Slender muscles move under the damaged skin and he thinks _she understands what it's like to hurt_ before he leans in and kisses her cheek. Startled, she turns her face to his. Her green eyes are soft, a little sleepy. He kisses her again, this time his lips against hers, and feels her arms steal around him, to hold him close.

It's some time later when they stroll into the kitchen together, sated and comfortable enough to hold hands. They find everything kept warm in the oven, while the kitchen radio plays and Sarah labors in the garden to pull weeds and water the tomato and pumpkin hills, her bright curls tugged by a soft breeze.


	9. Chapter 9

_July 4th_

"You up for some baseball?"

Greg sets down his beer and looks at Roz. She puts a blueberry pie into a picnic cooler with all the careful precision of a surgeon who performs microscopic surgery. Her tone is casual too, but he's not fooled. She won't look at him; he can sense her apprehension.

"Same deal as last time." She nods. "Sure, what the hell. Why not." Will's got him on a new TENS unit and it works a bit differently than the one he had before—it'll take some time to adjust, but he likes it better already. Roz looks in his direction. A slight smile tugs at her mouth.

"Rick wants us on his team."

"Hah," Greg says, struck by the thought. "I don't think so."

Roz closes the cooler, latches it shut and comes around the island. "Good," she says, and puts a hand on his bicep. She squeezes it gently. "You'll hit it right out of the park. You always do," she says, and kisses him. They take their time; she tastes faintly of coffee. When the kiss is done she strokes his cheek, her forehead against his. He nuzzles her a little, while he cups one of her small breasts.

"What happens when I don't?" he says finally.

"Then you'll try again." The sardonic inflection so natural to her is gone for the moment, replaced by a warmth he knows is meant for him alone. "I've never met anyone who works as hard as you do to get it right every time. It's sexy as hell."

"Now I know why you hang around. You like a breadwinner."

"I like _you_," she says. "That's just one part of you I find particularly nice. Among others." Her small palm slides gently down the inside of his good thigh, which catches Greg Junior's attention. "Maybe we could be a little late to the picnic," she says softly.

They spend time to make her wish come true, and play their own leisurely game of baseball right there in the kitchen. It feels so good to have her under his hands; he's missed the slight curves of her slender body, warm and supple. "Bring some jeans," he manages finally. "The band's playing tonight and I don't want to waste time picking gravel out of your legs when there's beer to drink before we do a set."

"I love you too," Roz says. She's clearly taken Sarah's advice to say the words but she means them, it's not just therapy work. "Can't wait to hear you guys play." Then she's gone, the cooler carefully balanced in her arms.

A few minutes later Greg is about to leave the kitchen when he hears Jason's voice from the back porch.

"But he never liked me . . ." The boy's words are choked and thick. "Not even when I was little."

"Your dad doesn't like himself," Sarah says quietly. "There's no love in him to give to anyone else, Jase. It has nothing to do with you."

"What if it does though? What if there's something wrong with me? How do I fix it?"

Greg stands frozen as he listens to the same thoughts he'd had at the age Jason is now, and every year since then. _What if I'm unlovable?_ He waits for what Sarah will say.

"There's nothing to fix," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I like you the way you are. So do other people."

"You're just saying that." It's a sullen reply, but under it the question still remains. Greg remembers the yard at Mayfield, and Sarah's echo of Cait Milton's words: _who says you need fixing?_

"Well, I sure don't see it that way," Sarah says. "I'd be happy to find you feeling better about yourself but everything else is top of the line, _cara_."

"You call me that all the time," Jason says. Some of the anger is gone now, replaced by a grudging curiosity. "What does it mean?"

"It's the Gaelic for 'friend'. One of the first words my grandma ever taught me in the old language." Sarah sounds a little wistful. Greg knows she didn't hear many positive words of any kind from her grandmother.

"You can speak another language?" Jason's impressed. Greg's lips twitch. The kid's got geek written all over him; small wonder he's picked on in school, but that means his progress follows the right path. This boy's got potential—'top of the line', as Sarah said, and no exaggeration either.

"_Sea, is féidir liom labhairt teanga eile._" Sarah says. She laughs, warm and sweet. "Now you've got me showin' off and we have a picnic to get to. Why don't you ride with me to the park? Gene can go with Bob. Do you have your catcher's mitt? We'll play some baseball in the afternoon if it isn't too hot. You and I at least can have a pitch, if you want."

"What's that?" Jason says it with suspicion.

"Just throwin' the ball back and forth. It's good practice. I'm not a bad pitcher for a girl, but Gene's better."

"I didn't know Gene was a girl." The kid made a funny—lame, but still a good attempt. Greg congratulates him. Always preferable to find the humor in the situation and use it whenever possible to protect, deflect or defend oneself.

"Ha ha, smartypants," Sarah laughs. "C'mon, let's go pack up some lunch and have fun."

They arrive at the park a half hour or so later. It's a warm muggy day, but there's a breeze and it isn't so bad under the shade trees. Gene makes short work of the set-up, as he strides back and forth from the truck to the blanket where they've set up their spot. Greg lowers himself to the blanket and unpacks things, mainly to steal a few bites of food here and there while Sarah teases him. She's in a white tee shirt and soft blue plaid seersucker capris, her curls held back in a ponytail; she helps Gibbs and Jason get their blanket spread, and lunch set out too. Mandy Faust and her mom are next to them. That's not a surprise, Jason and Mandy are fast friends. The Buttermans are set up on the other side. Greg hasn't seen Chelsea for a few months and he's amazed at how big she's gotten. She's begun to lose a bit of her baby fat now, and it's plain to see she'll be a real heartbreaker; every boy in town will be after her when she gets a shape. She comes over to him and as naturally as if she did it every day, she sits with delicate precision on his good leg—it's plain she remembers she'd hurt him the year before by being careless-and puts her arms around as much of him as she can in a fierce little hug.

"Unca Greg," she says with evident happiness. He sits motionless, startled by her embrace and the genuine delight behind it. Then he slowly brings his arm up to hold her—no more than the lightest and most tentative of touches, but she settles in and leans against him, completely at ease. After a few moments he has to admit to himself at least that maybe it isn't so bad. She doesn't squirm around or chatter at him, she's just happy to be where she is. He holds her a bit more firmly and glances over when Roz comes up beside him. She smiles, first at him and then at Chelsea.

"Hey," she says. "Thought I was your best girl."

"All the women want me," he says with a smirk. "It's my irresistible manly charm." He pats the spot on the other side and Roz takes it, dropping down with that quiet grace he always admires in secret. She slips an arm around him, her hand on his hip.

"I'll share you just for today," she says, and leans in to give him a kiss as Marti and Rob Butterman walk up, laden with picnic paraphernalia.

"Here you are," Marti says to Chelsea with evident relief. She glances at Greg, a silent query: _everything okay?_ He gives a little nod, but Chelsea is already up. She moves toward her dad, still careful of Greg's bad leg. Rob swings her into his arms and on his shoulder with an ease that jabs at Greg, nods and moves around to their spot.

The next hour or so is taken up with lunch, some desultory chat, and visitors. He's amused at the number of people who come up to congratulate him and Roz on their wedding; it's amazing what a difference two gold rings make. Of course some of well-wishers are there simply to scope them out and report back to other gossips later, but the majority seem to be sincere.

"Weddings are a big deal around here," Roz says when he makes a comment. "Ours in particular, since nobody ever thought I'd have one after I refused Rick." She says it quietly but he can still hear an edge of pain in her words. He doesn't say anything, but later on after they've eaten and are on the edge of a post-prandial nap, as they lie together in the sun-dappled shade, he kisses the nape of her neck and slides an arm around her waist. She leans back against him with a soft sigh, puts her hand over his.

All too soon he wakes up to find Sarah on her feet next to them. "C'mon, they're choosing teams," she says.

This time when they hit the field, Rob waits for them with a grin. "My best player," he says, and holds out his hand. Roz puts hers over it, and after a moment Greg does too. "Just do what you can, and we'll see how things go."

To Greg's distinct lack of surprise he sees Jason is on the team as well, with Sarah as mentor. She's crouched next to him, and talks in a low voice that holds encouragement without condescension. Jason looks nervous but willing to try. His hands grip the catcher's mitt, knuckles white. _He doesn't want to disappoint her and he knows he will,_ Greg thinks. After Sarah moves away he waits a few minutes, then limps over to where the kid waits to be assigned a position.

"They're gonna stick you in right field because you're a rookie. You'll get bored, but don't daydream when you're out there. Pay attention to the action. Watch the pitcher and see how he decides what kind of style to throw. Study how each batter hits. Everyone's got their little quirks. If we go through the rotation enough times you'll see what I mean."

"You gonna bat?" Jason eyes him doubtfully. Greg gestures at Roz, who limbers up with a long, careful stretch of both legs, one at a time, then together.

"I bat, she runs."

Jason's eyes widen. "Wow," he says, and smiles a little. "That's really cool."

Roz heads over to them in time to hear his comment. "We think so too," She smiles at Jason. "I'm glad you're on our team."

The kid turns red and mumbles something, his gaze on the ground as Roz pats his shoulder. Greg narrows his eyes. _Big time crush,_ he thinks. Out loud he says "You need to practice. Grab a bat." He taps Roz's mitt. "You catch."

The kid is clumsy, but mainly because he's inexperienced. By the fourth pitch he does better, his eye on the ball. Greg makes his pitches a little faster, a little less predictable and Jason quickly picks up on the change. He averages about three hits out of ten, pretty respectable for a beginner. After a few minutes Greg says "Okay, enough," and they all go in to meet with Rob as the game begins.

Their side is up first. Sarah starts them off against Rick, who of course pitches again this year. Greg watches as he gets a good mix of curves and sliders past her for two strikes and a ball. Sarah isn't flustered; she keeps her calm and waits. When the pitch comes in high and a little outside she smacks it hard and earns a double. She just makes it to second base in time.

Now it's Jason's turn. He steps up to the plate and looks nervous as hell. He glances over to Sarah who gives him a nod, then brings the bat to his shoulder and waits.

Rick doesn't spare him—no soft or easy pitches, but at least the kid doesn't swing at anything that comes his way. He fouls one ball, then gets struck out fairly quickly and walks away from the plate, shoulders hunched. Sarah calls him over and they talk for a few minutes while the next batter also strikes out. Two down now, and Greg and Roz are up. It's funny as hell to see everyone in the outfield go back clear to the creek in anticipation of a big long line drive. So when Rick obliges by trying a sinker, Greg bunts it. Sarah and Roz have both gained a base by the time Rick runs up to grab the ball and makes his decision to throw it to third. He glares at Greg but there's a slight edge of unwilling amusement in that look too, an acknowledgment of strategy from one good player to another.

Over the next couple of innings Greg watches Jason strike out two more times, but with each step up to the plate he has more determination than ever. In the fourth inning he hits a grounder, more by mistake than anything else, and makes it to first. The grin on his face is epic; as far as Jason's concerned he just hit it out of the park.

Greg's kept things quiet over the course of the game, just to mess with everyone. They don't know what to expect from him now . . . but Rick is wise to what's coming. He takes his time with the first pitch, refuses the first three suggestions the catcher gives him. Greg knows the lineup now though. Slider, curve, knuckle . . . it'll be a fast ball. He moves his hands down on the bat a bit and circles it as he waits. As the pitch comes toward him he starts to swing and feels a sensation like a bee sting on his thigh, sharp and unexpected, so that he fluffs the attempt and has a strike called on him. The electrode wire has pulled out of one of the pads and lies on his bare skin.

"_Dammit_," he growls under his breath.

"You okay?" Roz asks. Greg nods and brings up the bat. He'll have to ignore it; there's no time for him to go someplace and fix the problem.

_Use it,_ that little voice says. _Channel the pain. Send it into the bat._

He lets the next pitch go by, he knows it'll be called a ball. What comes up next, that's the make or break pitch. He readies the bat and watches Rick take the signal for a slider. When it comes in Greg waits until it starts to break; then he hits it for all he's worth, and winces as pain jars through him. There is a sharp crack and the ball soars into orbit. Outfielders stand with eyes shaded as they try to find it against the bright sunshine. Roz flies around the bases while Sarah brings in the run, then turns to cheer Roz in. She's almost home when the ball drops to earth and is piled on by nearly the entire outfield, and that guarantees another run for their team. While everyone yells and carries on in appropriate fashion, Roz comes up to him.

"What happened?" she asks quietly.

"Wire pulled loose," he says. She puts her arm through his as Sarah trots over.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice sharp with worry. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just pulled a wire."

Ten minutes later the problem is taken care of, he's examined and pronounced unharmed (something he tried to tell Gene throughout the procedure), and the game is over.

The band plays for about an hour before the fireworks start. There's ice cream and cake, and little kids run around with sparklers while the adults keep an eye on them and exchange gossip and news. Every now and then Greg is tempted to pinch himself. He'd never in his weirdest dreams expected to end up somewhere like this; what's even stranger, he doesn't mind-not too much, anyway. At least he receives some compensation; he gets to play music with guys who enjoy it as much as he does, and a woman waits for him at the end, if not with a cocktail, at least a bowl of ice cream and a kiss.

They stay for the fireworks. For a small town this place does a good show. Then it's time to pack up and go home. As they put bits and pieces into coolers, Jason comes up to Greg.

"Would you teach me how to hit a ball?" he asks, and stares at the ground.

"Why?" Greg asks, to see what the answer will be.

"I want to learn," the kid says. "I want to do it right. You know how."

In the soft darkness Greg smiles a little. "Yeah, I do," he says. "Okay. Be at the house tomorrow after dinner."

"Cool," Jason whispers, and walks away. Greg's smile widens a bit as he turns back to put away the last of the pie.

_Sea, is féidir liom labhairt teanga eile—_Yes, I can speak another language


	10. Chapter 10

_July 10th_

Roz had been up for an hour or so when she heard the bed creak—Greg was up. She added frozen blueberries and walnut pieces into the pancake batter, and smiled. This had become their favorite Sunday breakfast in the summertime; she had turkey sausage on hand and fresh eggs from the farmer's market too, with coffee ready to go.

A few minutes later she heard the familiar halting step that meant her husband was on his way. She tested the griddle and began to pour batter, aware Greg had stopped in the doorway. After a moment he went to the coffeemaker and got a mug from the dishrack.

"Smells good," he said, as he dug a spoon out of the drawer.

"Thanks." Roz poured the last pancake and moved over a bit to turn the sausages. "You're up a bit early."

He dumped sugar into his mug, gave it a stir and took a sip. Roz knew he watched her. "Pretty subtle. You're saying an old geezer like me should be sleeping the day away."

She glanced at him, brows raised. "Not without me. And you're not an old geezer." Once the sausages were turned she went to the fridge and got out the maple syrup and butter. "Next time we'll stay in bed all day and listen to music, if you like. Among other things."

"You don't have to try so hard." He said it quietly, without sarcasm. Roz paused, syrup in one hand, butter keeper in the other.

"I'm not pushing for us to be close," she said. "I'd really like to do that with you."

Greg held his coffee and pinned his gaze on her. She shut the fridge door and met his look with one of her own. "I'm planning to watch some tv while I'm eating breakfast. It would be more fun if you joined me."

He didn't move for so long she thought he would refuse; then he gave a hesitant nod. She turned back to the pancakes, and felt a little less apprehensive.

They decided on cartoons and when those were done, switched over to a movie, some stupid-humor comedy. Roz had never seen it before. She really didn't care what they watched; it was enough to be snuggled in at Greg's side. After a while his arm slipped around her shoulders. His fingers played with her hair. She breathed out a little sigh of contentment and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

"How's it going with Jason?" she asked after a while.

"Quick learner." Greg twined a strand around his index finger. "Smart mouth."

"Hmm, sounds familiar," she said, and chuckled when her hair was tugged gently. "Are you going to mentor him with his studies?"

Greg didn't answer right away. "Maybe."

"He's got the chops to go pretty far," Roz said. "I've heard him talking with Sarah. He's college material. Does he have an interest in medical school?"

"Not yet," Greg said. "He's still fascinated by fire and explosions. Boys his age love creating mayhem."

"Do tell," Roz said. "Sounds like personal knowledge to me. Give an example."

Greg made a noise that could have been a laugh. "Flour bag bombs. You take a five pound bag of flour, soak it in gasoline, go to the top of a tall building, light the paper and drop it."

"Oh my god," Roz said, torn between laughter and dismay.

"Yeah. Dad was stationed in the Philippines at the time. A good thing we weren't in Texas or California in the dry season, or I'd still be grounded for life and getting ten good ones from my old man's belt every evening."

Roz's amusement faded. She captured his hand with hers, eased his arm down to encircle her waist.

"What's wrong?" Greg looked at her, surprised.

"Did your dad go after you a lot?" She didn't bother to keep the emotion out of her voice.

"Hey." He waited until she looked at him. His vivid gaze held hers. "Can't do anything about it now."

"Wish I could." She squeezed his hand. After a moment he returned his attention to the tv, but he brought her a little closer.

When the movie was done Roz took the dishes into the kitchen and washed up, got some steaks out of the freezer to thaw for supper, and detoured to the bedroom to get the book she was reading. She returned to the couch, but was thwarted in her attempt to resume her seat. Greg lay stretched out, his long legs in her spot.

"I was sitting there," she pointed out as her heart sank. Had he pushed her away again?

"Nope," he said. "If you want to watch the game, I get to lay my head in your lap. Your naked lap." His eyes glinted with humor and something else. Roz stood there for a moment. Then she removed her tank top and shorts and put them over the arm of the couch. Greg watched her. A little smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"My wife goes commando," he said. "Learn something new every day." Roz felt her cheeks grow warm.

"Just on Sundays at home," she said. Greg's smile widened.

"Uh huh." He sat up. "You're blocking the view to the tv."

Roz came over and sat down, mortified that her blush had deepened. Greg lay back, his head pillowed on her thigh. He looked up at her. "Nice view," he said. "Why are you so red?"

"You got your naked lap, shut up," she muttered. He grinned, and she caught her breath. _Dimples_, she thought in an inane sort of way. _He showed his dimples. _

"Now now," he said in a chiding sort of tone, "playing Miss Crankypants doesn't become you." The next thing she knew he'd eased onto his side and lifted her left leg, propped it to spread her thighs. Before she could register what he'd done, lean fingers slid gently into the folds of her labia, and opened her to a kiss. Roz gasped softly, her head tipped back as his lips and tongue slowly brought her to the edge of orgasm, then eased her into a bright wash of sweetness so that she cried out as her fingers dug into the soft cushions.

For some time Greg stayed there and gave her little delicious aftershocks, until she almost floated off the couch. Her hands crept down to his back, held him to her as she delighted in the feel of him there. Eventually he finally sat up and unzipped his jeans to reveal an impressive erection. She switched positions and straddled him, took him in, enjoyed the expression on his face as they moved together slow and sure. His groan at the end brought her as much pleasure as her own climax.

They watched the game as he'd requested, with his head pillowed on her thigh, her arm around him. Every now and then Roz would glance down at him and enjoy his absorption in the game, the way he leaned into her touch. _I wanna love him so bad,_ she thought, and couldn't help but smile as the song popped into her head. Without thinking she hummed a few bars out loud.

"Are you possessed or just trying to drown out the tv?" Greg glared at her, but she still saw the amusement he took pains to hide.

"Sorry," she said, as her happiness faded. He sighed.

"Tell me."

The blush returned with a vengeance. "It was nothing."

His gaze sharpened. "Wrong answer."

She wasn't about to tell him. "Doesn't matter."

"Hah. Tell."

Roz shook her head. Greg sat up. Before she could blink he had her pinned in the corner, as he stroked her ribs. She squeaked and giggled as he tickled her.

"No! No—I—will you stop it!" She slapped at his hands with no effect. "Greg! _Quit_ it!"

"You'd better tellllll . . ." He drew out the last word in an ominous growl. Roz wriggled in desperation.

"No!"

"Telltelltelltelltelltell," Greg chanted. His voice shook with laughter. Roz gave up.

"Okay okay okay! It—it was a stupid girl group song, it just popped into my head!"

"He relented for a moment. "Which one?" His tone held suspicion. Roz drew a deep breath.

"The—the Jelly Beans," she said, and wished a couch cushion would open up and swallow her. Greg's eyes widened.

"'I wanna love him so bad,'" he sang softly. Roz swatted at him.

"_Yes!_ Happy now?"

"Sing it for me," he said. Roz went still. "Come on, sing it."

She flinched. "No."

He slid his hands up and down her arms in a slow, gentle gesture. "I'd like to hear it."

"Nobody wants to hear me sing." She wouldn't look at him.

"I do." He wasn't being sarcastic or nasty; he meant it. Roz dared a look at him. He watched her, his gaze steady. After a few moments she swallowed.

"'He lives in my neighborhood/when he walks by he looks so good,' she began. It seemed to take forever to get to the end of the verse. "I could make him happy/if he'd only let me . . .'" She trailed off when Greg leaned forward and kissed her. He did it with evident enjoyment, and took his time. When it ended he said against her lips,

"Got that out of your system?"

Roz nodded, and savored the feel of his kiss.

"Good." He pressed a quick buss to her mouth. "You've improved. Well done." He lay down and made himself comfortable, then brought her arm around him again. His hand held hers in a firm, gentle clasp. Roz waited until he was absorbed in the game; then she said,

"Next time you'll be the one giving me naked lap."

His lips twitched. "We'll see."

"No 'we'll see' about it." She felt used in the most pleasant of ways, and—there was no other word for it—cherished. The worry she'd carried around for what seemed like forever began to fade. They still had things to work out between them, but now at least it looked like they'd find a way to do it.

When the first long shadows of late afternoon fell, Roz got up and put on her clothing, went into the kitchen and started the broiler. She tore up romaine for the salad and hummed under her breath, softly so Greg wouldn't hear it.

"And when I look in his eyes/I keep seein' paradise/ I can't help it, I wanna love him so bad . . ."

'_I Wanna Love Him So Bad,' the Jelly Beans_


	11. Chapter 11

_July 14th_

It's another day crammed with vast quantities of boredom in ye olde medical center. Greg sits in his office, after most of a day spent in the administration of vaccines to the spawn of half the population of the southern Adirondacks. It's the one time he's grateful for the lab coat he so rarely wears; he donned it in anticipation of infantile bodily fluids, and his expectations were not disappointed.

Now he's got the iPod cranked as he listens to the Traveling Wilburys. He munches what's left of the cookies Sarah packed for him, plays air guitar along with 'She's My Baby' and enjoys the delightful if transitory sense of freedom. In another couple of hours he'll be home to do just what the song suggests, and he can't wait. The mere thought of Roz's long, sunbrowned legs tangled with his makes him wish his imagination wasn't so powerful. His wife had stopped by at two, shared lunch with him in the break room while perched on his good thigh, and offered up kisses so hot he'd almost melted into the chair. If this is the result of her talk with his shrink, he's all for it and more besides.

"She likes to stick her tongue right down my throat/She's my baby," he sings along with the track, and looks up when someone fills the doorway. To his surprise it's Gene. Sarah is right behind him. With care Greg takes his legs off the desk and removes the earbuds.

"Come back with a warrant," he says, and shuts off the iPod.

"Got some news." Gene comes in to claim one of the visitor's chairs Wirth forced on Greg months ago. Sarah takes the other one. She looks more excited than Greg's ever seen her.

"I guess so, if you both had to come all the way across town to deliver it instead of calling," he says, unable to figure out what's going on. No bad vibes from either party, though. "Do tell."

For answer Gene reaches into the soft-sided brief he's brought with him and draws out an article that's been photocopied from some journal. "Will faxed this over about an hour ago."

Greg accepts it and does a quick skim-read. At the second paragraph he stops. His heart skips several beats, then gives a great _thump_ as the information sinks in. He lifts his head to spare Gene a hard stare. "How many humans involved?" he snaps. His hands shake a little.

"Four," Gene says. "Two years and no side effects. They've all regrown a significant amount of muscle and are continuing to do so. It's a tiny sample, yeah. But significant."

Greg returns his gaze to the paper, taking in the pertinent facts. When he's done he tosses it to the desktop. "I want in."

Gene leans back. "Will sent the forms too. Fill 'em out, sign and you're in like Flynn, man. There's only one condition."

"_Shit,_" Greg groans. He's ready to grab that briefcase and snag a flight to wherever the trials are held. "I knew there'd be a catch."

"Talk with me about this first," Sarah speaks for the first time since her arrival. "I have some suggestions on how to proceed."

"I don't need counseling!" Greg gets to his feet, unable to sit. "I need _this!_"

"Greg." Sarah waits until he at last gives her his attention. "You have other considerations to deal with first before you make the commitment to the trial."

He glares at her, not ready to admit she's right. He also sees why she and Gene chose to deliver the news here; it's to remind him he has responsibilities he can't just abandon, as much as he'd like to in the heat of the moment.

But even they don't understand, they'll _never_ understand. This is his damn _leg_. He's lived with this hole in his life, and the immense pain it causes, for so long now it seems like an eternity. And yet the hell of it is, he can still remember what it was like to move without a limp, without pain, without any thought of caution and dammit, he wants that back_ now!_

Greg thumps his cane hard on the floor. He resists the urge to hurl it through the window and run the way he used to, run until his need for oxygen outstrips his body's capability to keep up and he has to stop, while his heart thunders in his chest, every part of him vibrant with life. The shakes are worse now; he can feel an anxiety attack edge closer. His blood pressure's up and he feels claustrophobic.

"Here." Gene has a bottle of water and an Ativan in his hand. He puts them on the desk, so it's a choice and not an order. With reluctance Greg takes the pill and dry-swallows it, a half-defiant gesture.

"Why don't you and Roz come over tonight?" Sarah says. "We'll do dinner and talk about this afterward. Gene and I are willing to help in any way you need us."

Greg sits down once more. He watches the couple on the opposite side of the desk. They sit there together, both of them ready to support him. The anxiety turns to tightness in his throat but it isn't related to the apprehension. This is something different he doesn't want to name.

"'kay," he says. Just the thought of discussion about this, in the place he's come to consider his first real home, helps ease the tension inside. He relaxes a little. "Yeah . . . let's do that."

"Cool." Gene gets up but Sarah stays where she is. Greg glances at her.

"I don't need a babysitter," he says sharply.

"That's good, because I don't plan to be one," she says calmly. Her sea-green eyes spark with affection. "I think we should talk a little before the big powwow tonight. Okay?"

He knows it's wisdom to do as she asks, even as he balks at the little-kid treatment. Gene gives him a nod. "See you later," he says, and then flashes that pirate's grin. "Hey man. This is a _good_ thing, don't forget."

Once he's gone and the door's closed, Sarah says "How much of your break do you have left?"

He glances at his watch—the one she gave him for Christmas a couple of years ago, with all the bells and whistles most runners love. The memory and knowledge of her faith in his healing steadies him. "I can take another ten minutes, Singh's covering for me."

"All right. I'll just mention this one item, and we can talk about everything else later after supper." She leans back a bit. "I would suggest you postpone getting the clinic up and running for a while."

Greg stares at her, and waits for more. She says nothing. "That's it?" he says after a moment. "That's your big idea? This one _item?_" He puts plenty of sarcasm in the question.

"Yes," Sarah says calmly. "You've gone through huge changes over the last year. Now you're looking at the biggest change of all. I believe it's too much."

"Because I'm such a weak sister," he says. His father's voice echoes in his head: _you never could deal with difficulties, Greg. It takes self-discipline to do that, and you have none._

"You have more courage than John House ever dreamed of." Sarah reads his thoughts, the way she sometimes does. "Anyone would have a tough time handling everything that's gone on in just the last year alone."

His anxiousness recedes further, helped along by her calmness and the Ativan, no doubt. "So you think I should give it up for now."

"I think it would be wise to make some choices that will give you the best chance at success. You're doing well working here, though I know you're bored out of your mind and ready to get back to solving puzzles." Sarah smiles at him. "I'm not saying you should give up working on the clinic. Just set the date back. When you're approved for the trial you'll be focused on rebuilding the muscle after the initial surgery anyway, and that's exactly what you should be doing."

"You . . . you think they'll approve me, then." He can barely get the words out.

"Yeah, I do," Sarah says. "We have good records for you. You've got MRIs and x-rays from your last visit with Will six months ago and everything looks good. Your liver enzymes have stayed in the normal range for well over a year and it looks like you're healing what damage there is. Along with the genetic testing, everything indicates the blood clot wasn't a manifestation of disease or predisposition."

"I'm an addict," he says. "That has to count against me."

"About that . . . I want you to meet one of the trial participants," Sarah says. "He's an addict too. Three tours of Iraq. At the end of the last one he got hit by shrapnel and lost a chunk of his right thigh. The injury is in pretty much the same place as yours and about the same size. He's just had the second surgery done and he's staying at the VA hospital in Albany for a couple of weeks."

"A vet," Greg says. He's not thrilled at the thought of another career idiot like his dad.

"Greg," Sarah says, and waits until he looks at her. "Don't judge him."

"Come on, you don't know him," he snaps. "Don't give me that oorah crap."

"I'm not. No, I don't know him. And neither do you." She's firm but gentle. "Just think about it." She glances at his watch. "Time's up. See you tonight."

After she's gone Greg sits in the quiet office. He listens to the distant sounds of activity in the front bays; the frantic wails of babies and young children as Singh vaccinates them while their parents offer comfort, the talk and laughter of a pair of nurses as they pass by, an unanswered phone somewhere. It all seems so ordinary, and yet reality has taken another major shift to a place he'd never dared hope would ever come into existence. It's too big to take in, too much to believe. He gets up and limps to the door and back to work, struggles against the desire to hop into Barbarella and drive all the way to Pittsburgh, pound on the door of the clinic doing the trial and beg, borrow, steal or bluster his way into the proceedings. It will take everything in him to bide his time. He's not sure he can do it.

When he arrives home two hours later, it's to find Roz's truck parked in front of the house. She's been home at five every weeknight for two weeks now, just as she promised. He pulls the car into the drive, shuts off the engine and sits there for a moment before he gets out and heads inside.

She's in the kitchen with ingredients for tonight's supper; she wears the lacy black tank top and short cutoffs that often fuel his fantasies about her. He limps to the doorway and stands there, watches her. Roz turns her head to smile at him, and it strikes Greg that she has never greeted him with a torrent of information about her day or demands for attention; mostly he gets a kiss and a welcome, and then she waits for him to talk to her.

"Hey _amante_," she says, and then she stops. Her smile fades as she studies his face. "What is it?" she asks after a moment, and he knows one of the reasons why he loves her: she doesn't assume the worst when she realizes something's up.

"Gene and Sarah came to see me at work a couple of hours ago," he says, and keeps an eye on her expression. "Reynard faxed them some information on a clinical trial . . ." His throat dries up; he can't get the rest of the words out.

The next thing he knows, he sits at the little breakfast table with Roz across from him. She holds his hands, palm against palm. "Take your time," she says in her quiet way.

"Someone's found a way to regrow muscle," he says at last. "They've started trials on humans. My . . . my doctors . . ." He's never really thought of Sarah, Gene and Reynard quite that way, but they are. "They believe I'd be accepted if I applied."

Roz's green eyes open wide. Shock is quickly followed by astonishment and then elation, a joy so powerful he blinks. And then she says, "How can I help?"

That simple question floors him. He doesn't know how to answer. Instead he tightens his hold on her hands a little. He can feel her mutilated finger pressed against the outside of his wrist. She understands what physical loss means, the pain and limitations imposed by random fate; Gene and Sarah do too, but he isn't married to them. It's as if he's opened a drawer and found a treasure he believed lost, when it was his own carelessness that caused the mistaken impression of loss in the first place. "Sarah wants us to come over for dinner," he says. She nods.

"Okay. I can be ready to go in ten."

She's as good as her word. About twenty minutes later they're in Sarah's kitchen and Gene says "Steaks are almost done, grab a plate and get started."

After supper they sit in the living room in a loose circle. The All-Star game replay is on in the background.

"We'll both advocate for you," Gene says. "You're a good candidate for this trial."

"Age," Greg says, determined to find the obstacle he knows lurks in the background somewhere.

"You're fifty-three. If you'd continued on the course you were following when we first met, I'd say you wouldn't make old bones," Sarah says. "Things are different now."

"This is a long-standing injury," he says.

"Shouldn't make a difference," Gene says. "We might have to add in some weightlifting eventually to get your bone density back to par, but you've been keeping fairly active since you got here. I don't think that will be much of a problem."

"What if it doesn't work?" That's what has his hands sweaty and his mind on fire with alternate hope and fear, both of which he detests.

"Then you should be no worse off than you were before," Sarah says. "There's no way to know, because the protocol's been successful in all the animals and in each human so far. It's a risk you'll have to take."

"Yeah, because 'no worse off' is such a great place to be," he snarls at her. She doesn't flinch.

"It is, actually." She sits back and watches him. "Seems to me it's a small risk at this point. You'd be better served to keep your focus on success."

Silence falls over the room.

"When can I expect an answer?" Greg asks finally.

"Will's said he'll do his best to expedite your entry," Gene says. "He's got a lot of pull with these guys. Apparently they went to school with him. I'd say two weeks."

Two weeks . . . an eternity. He'll explode with impatience before the first day's up.

"Road trip," Sarah says. "I want you to meet Eric. That should take up a few days and keep you from heading off to Pittsburgh on your own."

She knows him too well. "Bullshit," he says. Sarah grins at him.

"Come on, it'll be fun. We'll go on the weekend and Gene and Roz can go with us if they like."

"What can we do in the meantime?" Roz asks.

"We need to talk with Diane about scheduling time off," Sarah says. "Greg would have the initial surgery and then probably another one farther down the road, to deal with the scar tissue from the old injury. And he'll be in PT as well." She smiles at Roz. "You've got everything on one floor at your place, that's a big help."

"I was thinking . . . maybe Greg would rather stay here for a week or two after the first surgery," Roz says. He looks at her, surprised. She gives him a glance; there's no resentment or self-doubt in her eyes. "You're more comfortable here," she says. "I can come over and stay with you if it's okay with Sare and Gene."

_She really meant it,_ he thinks. _She wants to help._

"Of course it is," Sarah is saying. "It's up to you, Greg. You know our home is yours too. That goes for both you and Roz."

"Only if you bring the damn cat," he says finally.

Later on, when they're back home and ready for bed, Roz goes to the bookshelf. She chooses a tome with care. Greg loves to tease her about how she treats her reads with such reverence, but actually he likes it.

When she comes over he can see she has _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_. "Oh _god_," he groans, though it's just for show. She read him the first book some time ago; while he prefers Jack Cannon, he has to admit the Harry Potter series is not that bad after all. He enjoys it when she reads to him because she likes to stop and discuss plot points, symbology, deeper meanings, and more. She's an intelligent, insightful and articulate reader, and if he's honest he's ashamed of himself for his presumption. She's no unlearned small-town girl.

Roz ignores his jibe and opens the book toward the end. "There's something I want you to hear," she says, and turns a few pages before she stops. When she begins to read, it's the passage with Dumbledore and Harry in the Headmaster's office, discussing Harry's similarities to Voldemort. Greg listens to a few lines, then says "What's this supposed to illustrate?"

Roz pauses, then says slowly, "'It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.'" She closes the book. "I know you're scared to feel any kind of hope that this new medicine will work. I know you're afraid you'll come home with nothing. But you're choosing to go ahead with it anyway." Her hand comes to rest on his arm. "Definitely a Gryffindor," she says, and offers him a smile.

"Ravenclaw," he retorts, and lies back to watch her.

"Books and cleverness," she says. "You're much more than that. This isn't just about your head, your heart is involved too. I'm glad you're listening to both." She puts the book on the nightstand. "Nox," she says to make him chuckle, turns out the light and lies next to him. "Whatever happens, it'll be all right," she whispers, and kisses his cheek before she puts her head on his shoulder and drops off. He lies in the soft summer darkness for a long time, his mind at sixes and sevens as it takes bits of information and plugs them into models, theories, extrapolations, until tiredness claims him too and he slips into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

_July 23rd_

_(He stands outside the medical center, and looks through the doors at the people inside. He can see Wirth, Singh, the nurses, everyone he works with during the week, but Sarah's in there too with Gunney, and he caught a glimpse of Roz as well. They're oblivious to his presence as they talk, laugh, go about their business. He's already tried to join them, but he's locked out. No matter how hard he pounds on the glass or shouts, no one pays any attention to him. Now he simply watches, alone as always, an invisible barrier between him and everyone else. _

_As he stands there the day darkens, bright sun fades to night shadows. When he looks up, high above him is a silvery pale disc, barren and remote against a sprinkle of stars. Its icy light shines down, chills the breeze that's sprung up. Gooseflesh rises on his limbs; it's then he realizes he is naked—even the TENS unit is gone. He glances around and finds he's in a yard he knows all too well. Before him is a house. One window spills warm golden light high up, well out of reach._

"_No," he whispers. Fear makes him tremble. "No . . . don't . . . don't leave me here . . . don't make me . . .")_

"Shhhh . . . it's all right, _amante_."

He comes to with a jolt, startled out of his nightmare. A small hand rubs his back with a light touch, slow and tender. _Roz,_ he thinks. There's wetness around his eyes; he rolls away from her, ashamed of his weakness. She says nothing, just moves over a bit and rests her hand on his hip, her body close to his. Her touch is sweet and eases his fear, and the old pain of loneliness.

When he wakes again it's to Roz's hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes with reluctance. She sits next to him on the bed. In her other hand is a mug. "Time to wake up," she says softly, and offers him his first dose of caffeine for the day. He struggles to sit up, still muzzy with broken sleep, takes the mug and sips the coffee. It's hot, sweet and perfectly brewed—a little strong, dark and rich and delicious.

"Breakfast is almost ready." Roz leans in and kisses him before she leaves in that quiet way of hers. She gives him a smile before she slips through the door.

He manages to get some toast and an egg into his empty stomach so he can take his meds, but anxiety has destroyed his appetite. While he eats Roz brings out the old duffle he uses as an overnight bag. It's packed and ready to go.

"You're too damn efficient," he complains, but his heart isn't in it. Roz puts the duffle at his feet and takes his plate and silverware to the sink. He watches her wash up. Something about the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head tells him she holds back her feelings. She had accepted his request to go to Albany with just Sarah, but she hadn't liked it much. Now he senses . . . not resentment or anger, but some other equally strong emotion. Curious, he pokes at her to see how she'll respond.

"You'll enjoy having the weekend to yourself for once."

Roz puts the plate in the dish rack and stands there for a moment. When she turns and walks back to him Greg braces for whatever will happen next. She moves behind him and puts her hands on his shoulders.

"I'll miss you," she says, and kisses his bald spot. "Call me when you get there, please."

"Impressive," he can't help but say. "No tantrum, no silent treatment."

"I'd still rather go," she says quietly, "but I think I understand why you want it to be just you and Sarah."

It occurs to him then that she has chosen to accept his decision with good grace rather than give him a hard time. He brings her around to sit on his good leg and exchange a few kisses. She tastes faintly of coffee and cinnamon sugar, a pleasant combination.

"Thanks," he says after a while. Roz bumps his nose gently with hers.

"Welcome," she says. "Better get going, Sarah's waiting."

An hour later he sits shotgun next to Sarah in the beige minivan. "You should just buy this thing instead of renting it," he says as they head down the drive to the lane.

"We've thought about it," Sarah says. "Jay says if we want it he'll get us a good deal with the rental guy. He'll tune it up for us too."

"Nothing like a back-door deal," Greg snipes.

"Did you get any rest last night?" Sarah asks softly. He doesn't answer. "Bad dreams?"

He doesn't want to talk about it so he looks out the window instead, and watches the village pass by. After a moment Sarah's hand touches his arm. She understands; she'll let him tell her when he's ready.

When they get to the highway Sarah puts a CD in the player. It turns out to be a mix list mostly of blues. Greg relaxes at the familiar sound of Lightnin' Hopkins and 'Goin' Down Slow'. "Got some questions," he says.

"Fire away," Sarah says.

"Confidentiality," Greg says. "You know the VA's a real hardass about that kind of thing."

"It's okay." Sarah glances at him. "I spoke with Will and he talked to the guys running the trial. They ran interference for us and let Eric know you'd like to talk to him. He's okay with it, in fact they said he's looking forward to meeting you."

"Usually the doctors running the trial don't like to have the patients talk with potential prospects."

"Will knows you, they know Will. They won't do anything to jeopardize the trial, believe me." Sarah stretches a little. "Were you able to eat breakfast?"

They stop for doughnuts, coffee and tea at the bakery before they head to the highway that will take them to the main artery down to Albany.

"Did you take your meds?" Sarah polishes off a maple-pecan cake doughnut with a sip of tea.

"Did you change your underwear? Shave your pits? Cut off your split ends?" he snaps.

"I see. Here." She hands him an Ativan. "It's okay, Gene cleared it."

"Yeah, because I want to show up stoned when I meet this guy." Greg takes the pill anyway. His hands shake, and not just because he's already had a double dose of caffeine this morning. "I . . . I did have a bad dream last night."

Sarah pulls out into what traffic there is. "Okay, I'm listening."

He takes a chocolate doughnut from the box and bites into it. "I was outside the medical center. You—everyone was inside. I was outside. Couldn't get in."

"More?" she says when he falls silent. He washes down the mouthful of doughnut with coffee, and hesitates.

"I . . . I was in the yard." He hates the words, but now they're said and he can't take them back.

"Classic anxiety dream," Sarah says quietly. "I'd be surprised if you didn't feel as if you were on the outside looking in right now. That's been your default position for some time."

"Great," he mutters.

"That doesn't mean you have to stay there," she says, and gives him a smile that's as warm as the sun when it rises over the mountains around them.

They get to the freeway and head southeast, silent as music fills the van. Greg feels the anxiety fade a little. He settles back, eyes closed.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" he asks after a while.

"Define 'this'."

"Roadtrip."

"Yeah, I do. Wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise." Sarah says it without hesitation.

"How'd Gunney take the news he wasn't invited?"

"We talked and got it settled," Sarah said. "He didn't really have a problem with it. He was more concerned that you might need some adjustments to your meds, but we have things set up so he can help you out if need be." She pauses. "How did Roz take it?"

"I'm still alive," Greg says, but that really isn't fair. "She, uh . . . she's not happy but she's dealing."

"She's worried you'll be disappointed," Sarah says. That takes him by surprise; he hadn't considered that viewpoint for some reason. "What are your expectations of this meeting? I know you've thought about it."

"You mean obsessed over it." He sips his coffee and picks out another doughnut, this one plain cake with vanilla-butternut icing. "Should have just handed me a questionnaire when I got in, then you'd have all the answers you want." It's a lame riposte but he's not up to anything really good this morning, his mind is preoccupied with other thoughts.

"So tell me a few of the answers," Sarah says.

"What if this is complete bullshit?" He thinks of Foreman's clinical trial, how easily it was manipulated and then shut down. "It's simple to make statistics look good, or bring in a ringer to lie to potential participants."

"That's partly why I'm here." Sarah passes a black Expedition and a semi. "If you and Eric are agreeable, I can observe your meeting and give you my thoughts afterwards."

"And the other part of why you're here is to keep me under control."

"No," Sarah says. "Not control. Just to remind you of priorities. You tend to get tunnel vision when you're on a quest."

That honest reply throws him for a moment. "'Quest'."

"Well, that's what this is, isn't it?" She sounds reasonable, not accusatory. "For someone with such a rational mind you have an impressive set of superstitions about your leg."

"_Superstitions?_" He doesn't know whether to be insulted or amused. "What the hell does that mean?"

"What it sounds like," Sarah says with a slight smile. "I'm not trying to offend you. Just sayin'."

"Explain," he demands, intrigued and not at all sure he agrees with her.

"Okay, let's take the ketamine treatment as an example." He groans. About the last thing he wants to be reminded of now is that disaster. "No, hear me out. You were correct in asking for it, both Gene and I agree it was the right course at the time. But you've got some idea in your head that you screwed it up by missing a diagnosis—something you later discovered was not your fault, but the damage was already done and couldn't be undone." She's silent a moment. "The truth is, ketamine's success rate is somewhere around sixty per cent. So your odds of having the treatment work were a bit above fifty-fifty—the flip of a coin. You happen to be in the percentage for whom ketamine is an ineffective treatment."

"Not strictly true," he says. "It worked for a couple of weeks."

"Until you made a mistake, right?" Sarah shakes her head. "I don't buy that for a second. There may have been a psychological-emotional component involved, but it wasn't the most important aspect."

He thinks about that for a while and listens to Leadbelly sing 'Midnight Special'.

"You're worried if you're accepted and have the surgery that it won't take because there's something wrong with you," Sarah says quietly.

"The track record to date hasn't been a good one."

"Gene would tell you it takes several tries to find the right protocol. That's been my experience also in psychoanalysis."

"What if this isn't it? What if this is my best shot, and it's not going to work?" It's his worst fear.

"We'll deal with that when we get to it," Sarah says.

"More like I'll deal with it and you'll get to pick up the pieces." He hears the bitterness under the petulance and winces away from it.

"I don't think so," Sarah says. "I think this is going to work. And when it does, you and I will have plenty to talk about."

"I'll be done with getting my head shrunk," he protests, just to poke at her. Sarah laughs.

"Superstitions, remember? Just because the hole in your leg is healed doesn't mean the wound in your soul does the same. It's not a magic fix."

"_Shit,_" he grumbles, and she laughs again.

"Come on, it won't be that bad. At least once your thigh muscle's back you can run if you don't like the conversation."

"Change of subject," he says.

"Okay," Sarah says cheerfully, and they don't talk about the reason for their journey until they end up in the hospital parking lot.

"You ready for this?" she asks. He unbuckles his seat belt.

"Let's go," he says, and clambers from the van. He gathers up his cane and sticks out the crook of his elbow. When Sarah reaches his side, she eases her arm in place and gives him a gentle pat. Together they set out for the entrance. The sun is warm on his face and shows fiery glints in Sarah's curls. _Please let this work,_ he says within his mind, _please let this work._ And then they are through the doors and headed for the elevator, on their way to Eric's room.


	13. Chapter 13

_July 23rd_

Five minutes in and they've already hit a roadblock in the form of the floor's charge nurse, a middle-aged woman with a formidable bosom and hips jammed into truly hideous floral scrubs a size too small, her dyed curls secured with plenty of gel. Her nametag reads _Dolores Cordwainer, L.P.N._ Greg has the suspicion that if she thought she could get away with it, she'd wear a white nylon uniform with her nursing school cap perched atop those pin curls.

"Ma'am, we do have permission." Sarah struggles to keep her temper, Greg knows all the signs by now; that quiet, too-even tone in her voice, the way she folds her arms, a slow shift from foot to foot. If he was a nicer person he'd warn their antagonist not to piss off his shrink, but he's not nice, never has been, never will be. Besides, he enjoys fireworks when they're not aimed at him. "Doctor Evans specifically okayed this visit."

"You should have a letter from him saying so," Cordwainer says. Her tone is dismissive.

"I was told we wouldn't need one." Sarah pulls her cell phone out of her purse.

"What are you doing?" The LPN sounds a little alarmed.

"Calling the doctors who run the trial," Sarah says. It's not quite a snappish reply, but close. "I'm presuming if you speak to them and they say it's all right, we can see the patient?"

"Dolores, it's okay. I've been waiting for them." At the sound of the new voice everyone turns. A young guy stands in the hallway, adjustable crutch under his left arm. His dog tags jingle softly as he moves forward. "You must be Doctor House," he says, and extends his hand. Greg makes no move to take it.

"I must be," he says. "You're the idiot who got his right thigh blown off."

Eric Cardenas gives him a long, direct look. "Yeah, that's me." He swings his gaze to Sarah. "Doctor Goldman, right?"

Sarah spares the RN a last look and moves to the younger man. He offers his hand to her and she takes it with a smile. "Please call me Sarah. Nice to meet you, Corporal Cardenas."

"Just Eric, ma'am." His thick black hair is cut in the q-tip style Greg knows all too well. "Come on back to my place."

'My place' consists of a few chairs by the bed to which Eric's been assigned. Greg eases himself down and resists the urge to slouch. This feels all too familiar, if in a somewhat different way than he remembers. It's not a good feeling. Eric sits down opposite him. Greg can see now he's barely more than a kid—the right age to be his son, actually, somewhere around twenty-four, twenty-five. The thought brings back even more unwelcome memories, so he pushes it and them away.

"I understand you have muscle loss in your right thigh too," Eric says. "You wanted to talk to me about the surgery."

"Yeah," Greg says. The younger man sits back as Sarah takes a seat in the corner. He glances at her.

"I'm just an observer," she says. "Everything said here will be kept confidential."

Eric turns his gaze to Greg, an unspoken question in his eyes. _Can I trust her?_ Greg inclines his head slightly.

"Okay," Eric says. "What do you want to know?"

"How did it happen?" It's not like Greg cares, but it'll give him some idea of what kind of injury occurred, how much trauma was inflicted.

"Shrapnel." The flat tone conveys all the listener needs to know of the shock, terror and pain of that moment. "It carved out about seventy percent of my quadriceps." He looks at Greg's right leg. "You?"

"One day I was out playing golf with my girlfriend and and the next thing you know, it just sort of fell off. My quadriceps, not what you're thinking."

Eric folds his arms. "How about you give me an honest answer and I'll keep talking? Otherwise you wasted a trip."

"Everyone's a critic when it comes to humor." Eric doesn't budge. Greg gives a mental sigh. "Muscle infarction. You know what that is?" Eric shakes his head. "A blockage in the artery. In my case there was a clot."

"They can fix that though, right? How'd you lose the muscle?"

It still infuriates him to talk about this even after so many years. "The idiots who examined me thought it was drug-seeking behavior on my part . . . taking . . . taking advantage of a cramp or a strain." He hates telling this to a stranger. "They let it go on for three days. The muscle died and—and had to be removed." He waits for the usual platitudes or commiseration or more questions. Eric is silent for a few moments.

"Your doctors were_ pendejos_," he says finally. "Pardon my language, ma'am."

"Don't worry about it," Sarah says. "It's a good assessment."

"Yeah it is," Greg says. "Anyway. It—it happened a while ago. With any luck some of them are dead now."

"You have a lot of pain with that." It's not a question. "What are your numbers like?"

"Tell me yours," he says. For the first time Eric smiles just a little.

"Before the trial started, base was a four. Bad days, seven or eight. Now . . ." He rubs his thigh. "A two and even that's getting better. Apparently the nerves are growing back. The docs didn't expect that. Sort of a side bonus."

A surge of incredible excitement fills Greg at the news. "Nerve regeneration along with the muscle?"

"Yeah. It's weird, kinda tingly, shooting pains sometimes, you know? But not bad, just—strange."

"What's the procedure like?" Greg finally asks, just as someone behind him says

"Hey big E, how's it going?"

The someone is a woman. She's older, sixty-something, with a thick bob of graying dark auburn hair framing a face that still holds beauty, despite the ravages of time. She's a nurse too, if the scrubs, nametag and stethoscope in her pocket are anything to go by. Her large dark eyes give Greg the once-over, but he's surprised to see speculation there rather than curiosity. She glances at Sarah. A little frown line appears between her brows for a moment.

"Goin' good," Eric says with a grin. His affection for the woman is obvious. "Did two more laps in the pool today."

"That's great!" The woman's approval is unfeigned. "Listen, you have visitors—"

"No, it's okay. They're here about the clinic trial," Eric says. Greg shoots a look at Sarah, who shrugs a bit as if to say _it's out of our hands_. "This is Doctor Sarah Goldman and Doctor Greg House. Doctors, I'd like you to meet my nurse practitioner Colleen McMurphy."

Nurse practitioner . . . She'll be a pain, her kind always are. Greg settles back in his seat and gives her his best inimical glare. McMurphy returns it with a cool stare of her own, but there's an edge of amusement there too. She glances at the cane beside him, then at his right thigh where his jeans reveal the shapes of the TENS pads, the unit on his belt half-hidden under his jacket. The humor vanishes, replaced by comprehension and a quiet sadness that holds no condescension. He waits for pity or sympathy or even scorn, but they don't appear.

"I'll talk with you later," she says to Eric. "Nice to meet you," she offers a nod to Sarah and slides one past Greg, not quite polite, before she leaves the room.

"Battleax," Greg mutters under his breath.

"You mean McMurphy? No way, man. She's the best." Eric's homely face shines with affection. "She was in the 'nam, in country at the Five and Dime. Two tours that she's told me about, but I bet there were more. She's seen it all, she knows how it is, how hard it can be to come back to the world."

_Great. Career military. _Greg hunches his shoulders as more unwelcome memories crowd in. "You were gonna tell me about the procedure."

"Yeah, okay. Um, it's pretty simple. They cut a little slit in your thigh and put in this thing, it's like a tiny envelope full of blood, and that's it. You have to take it easy for the first few days for the stuff to get settled and let the incision heal up, but after that they put you on PT, a graduated course." He beams. "I bench-pressed one fifty yesterday. Lost some weight too."

"Side effects?" That's what scares Greg. He's not sure he can handle anything like more pain. Eric thinks about it.

"Sometimes at night . . . you have to get up and move, you know? Can't lie still. It's not bad, just this weird kinda urge to walk or stand up. It doesn't hurt. McMurphy says it's a little like restless leg, only in a good way." He studies Greg. "If you were active before, it helps."

Greg makes a noise like a laugh. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"That's good." Eric sits back a little. "You never told me your numbers."

"Personally I prefer the smaller ones, like zero," Greg says. Eric laughs.

"Yeah, me too." He glances at the clock. "Listen, would you both like to join me for lunch? The chow here's not bad for a hospital."

"How about we take you someplace, our treat?" Sarah says with a smile. "It's a small way to say thanks for allowing us to visit. Do we need to clear your leaving?"

They're on their way out when Greg spots McMurphy with a group of veterans in the common room. Most of them are amputees. They sit at a table and play cards, and carry on like a bunch of teenagers (truth be told, many of them aren't much older than that). She's right in there with them to toss in sarcastic remarks that makes the guys hoot with laughter and respond in kind. She's completely comfortable, just one of the boys; there's a deep respect and affection that's apparent in every action and word, and it goes both ways. _She was in 'nam,_ he thinks, and wonders if she knew his dad.

Later that evening, after they've enjoyed a repast of Chinese takeout, Greg says "Your impressions."

"The General Tso's was perfect." Sarah stretches a little.

"Yeah, because my life revolves around the right balance of chilies versus grenadine and plum sauce."

"It doesn't revolve around your right thigh either," she says quietly.

"The hell with you," he snaps at her, unable to bear the thought of a lecture on how to handle things. She turns to face him. All the good humor is gone now.

"I'm gonna say this straight out. If you make this one act the focus of your happiness, if you make this the meaning of your life, you'll never find what you're looking for."

"You read that in your fortune cookie," he says. "Easy for you and Confucius to say."

"You think so?" she says. There's a little fire in her words now, and her voice is tart. "My life's been nothing but sweetness and light, is that what you believe?"

"So we're comparing scorecards now," he says.

"I'm not trying to one-up you. We could sit here all night and trade stories about the past. What I'm saying is, if you pin all your hopes and belief on one event, you'll be disappointed."

"Belief," he scoffs. "I don't _believe_ anything. I _know_ this procedure has a better than average chance to give me what I want, based on the previous and current trial records."

"What do you want?" Sarah asks quietly.

"I just told you—a functional right leg. All of it working, not bits and pieces."

"And what do you think will happen when you get your functional right leg?"

"You're just trying to harsh my mellow," he gripes. "Cut it out."

"It's a legitimate question and you know it. How about an answer?" Sarah folds her arms and watches him.

"Things will be better," he says finally.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? I'll—I'll have my _leg_ back! My mobility, my . . ." He struggles to find the words.

"I think 'freedom' is the word you're looking for," Sarah says. "How old were you when the blood clot happened?"

"Thirty-five," he says. Bitterness wells up inside at the thought of all those years lost, years when he could have had something like a real life.

"Do you think the days between then and now have been empty, meaningless?"

He sees the trap. "You're telling me I should be grateful anyway." The laugh escapes him, caustic and mocking. "Grateful for endless pain, for becoming an addict? For the people around me using my disability as a leash to make me perform the tricks they like best?"

"I'm not telling you what to feel or think. I'm trying to get you to look at your life as it stands now and accept it as it is, because if you believe getting your leg back means you'll instantly have your old life back, it won't happen." She pauses. "And by the way, you were an addict before you ever took a single Vicodin."

He feels a stab of anxiety. "What the hell are you basing that opinion on?"

"You used physical activity the same way you used drugs later—to distance yourself from your emotional and psychic pain. When you're an addict, the method you by which you express your addiction doesn't really matter. It's the fact that you feel a compulsion to numb yourself out somehow that's the important part of the equation." Sarah sits back. "I tried to use my relationship with Gene that way, in the beginning. If I had him I'd be happy, I'd have what I wanted—someone to love who loved me, who wouldn't ever hurt me the way my family did. It was an understandable desire, and destined to fail."

"Let me guess. Someone showed you the error of your ways and you're so much happier now," he says. Sarah looks at her hands.

"It took Gene walking out and a four-hour session with Prof, a lot of yelling and tears and denial, before I finally saw the truth he offered. I'm attempting to give you the same gift Gordon gave me," she says quietly, and lifts her gaze to his. Her sea-green eyes are somber. "The chronic pain caused by the blood clot and muscle removal was powerful enough to mask the older, deeper pain you've been carrying around for years, but it's still there. You've come a long way in facing those old wounds and I'm proud of you for that, son. Now you need to decide for yourself to let them go. Stop defining yourself by your past and the people who hurt you."

"Why should I when you haven't?" Greg reaches out, grasps her wrist and extends her scarred arm. "You still carry your wounds around." He lets her go, his point made; she lowers her arm to rest on her thigh. She stares down at the ugly ragged gullies, traces one with a fingertip. She's silent for so long he starts to wonder if she'll say anything at all.

"They're just marks on skin," she says finally. "I always thought plastic surgery would be a denial . . . but you know, I think you're right. It's time to have them removed. I don't need them anymore."

"You're just saying that," he says, to see what kind of reaction he'll get. Sarah shakes her head.

"Nope. I'll talk to Will, he can recommend someone. But not until after you're settled into the trial and seeing results." She's silent a moment. Then she says "Thank you."

"For what? Costing you ten grand minimum?"

She gives him a dry look full of affection. "No, you doof. For reminding me that deeds matter, not words."

"Fine, that's great." He pauses. "Asps. Very dangerous. You go first."

That makes her laugh, as he'd intended. "No way. You first, boyo."

"_Boyo?_" He holds out his hand. "Rock paper scissors, two out of three."

Sarah laughs again. "Nuh uh, that's just tails I win, heads you lose. You go first."

"Chickenshit." He clucks at her. Sarah smacks his hand.

"Okay, okay! Brat!" She extends her fist. "One, two, three . . ."

She wins it; scissors cut paper, rock breaks scissors. "Three out of five," Greg wheedles.

"Nope. I won fair and square, son." She gets to her feet and stretches. "I'll be up for a while. If you want to talk come on over, okay?"

"I hope that's a hidden invitation for smokin' hot sex."

"Only if your name is Gene Goldman." She heads for the door. "I'm sure Roz would be delighted to get a call from you tonight."

Greg rolls his eyes. After she's gone he gets out his cell phone and looks at it for a long time before he puts it away again, takes another cold beer from the mini-fridge and picks up the remote. He wants to talk to Roz, but not right now . . . not just yet. There's a lot of cogitation to be done before he confides in anyone else besides Sarah. She's right, he's at a crossroads, and he's not sure yet which path to choose; the temptation to take the one he knows is strong, but that's brought him to this point in the first place. Time to go another way, perhaps . . . but which one?

When he does finally get a few hours of sleep he dreams, but only tattered fragments remain when he wakes, his mind unrefreshed, his body knotted with anxiety.

They stop off to see Eric once more before they head back home. This time he's in PT, at work on the muscles of his affected leg. "Good morning," he says when he sees them. He's sweaty, and it's obvious the workout causes discomfort to say the least, but there's a joy in Eric's expression that Greg covets with everything in him. "Wanna see my scar?"

It's even worse than Greg's. "They're talking plastic surgeons, but I don't give a shit—beg your pardon ma'am," Eric says. "It's just skin. My girl don't care anyway."

"I bet she's glad you're getting that thigh back," Sarah says, and laughs her sweet musical laugh when Eric blushes.

They leave him with a promise to stay in touch. "Don't worry, Doctor House," Eric says. "You'll be accepted. When you're cleared for alcohol we'll go out for a couple of beers and maybe some hoops on the court."

The drive home is a quiet one. It isn't until they stop for brunch that Greg says "What are you thinking?"

"A better question might be what are _you_ thinking?" Sarah stirs her tea. Greg breathes in the familiar and oddly comforting smell of the restaurant—a mélange of freshly cleaned tabletops, aromatic just-brewed coffee and fried hash browns, mingled in the chill conditioned air—and takes refuge in defense.

"I asked first."

"There's a lot on my mind. I'm not ready to talk about it yet though." Sarah puts some sugar into the tea. "How about you?"

"What you said, mostly." He sips his coffee. "You believe I'll get into the trial."

"Yes." She doesn't jerk him around. "The administrators wouldn't have let you meet Eric if they hadn't planned on inviting you to participate." She sets her spoon aside. "Are you ready for this?"

He has to be honest, though he doesn't want to be. "I don't know. But I have to do it anyway."

Sarah nods. "Okay. We can both work with that."

The rest of the trip is uneventful. When they arrive at home Roz's truck is pulled up in the driveway. As he gets out she emerges from the interior and waits for him, her hand raised to shade her eyes against the harsh sunlight. When he goes to her she kisses him, slow and sweet.

"Glad you're back," she says softly.

"Me too." He strokes her cheek. "Sorry I didn't call last night."

"It's okay. I'd like to hear about how things went." She opens the door a little wider. "Come in where it's cool. It's gonna be a hot one today." When he doesn't follow her into the house she pauses to glance at him, puzzled. "What?"

"Thanks," he says, unable to look at her. After a moment she takes his hand.

"You're welcome," she says, and leads him inside.


	14. Chapter 14

_July 26th_

"Please tell me why you feel you're the best person for this job." Sarah leaned back a bit and waited. She resisted the urge to tap her pen on the pile of applications hidden out of sight of the webcam.

"Well . . ." The young woman hesitated. "I just want to help people. This seems like a good way to do that." She gave Sarah an innocent look, her big blue eyes wide. "It is, isn't it?"

"If that's your main goal you could find work in almost any doctor's office or clinic across the country," Sarah said. She struggled to be polite at this stage. Fifteen minutes with Miss Krystle Condon had proven revelatory. When the interviewee had found out Sarah and Greg were both married, her interest in the clinic had increased markedly, and she'd even managed to insert a few personal questions about their respective private lives in with her answers to Sarah. _Where I come from we call your kind homewreckers,_ Sarah thought, and kept a polite expression pinned to her face.

"I'd like to work with the best." A charming smile was aimed her way, in much the same manner as you'd toss a treat at a dog. "That's always been my goal."

_I'll just bet it has. _"Understood, Miss Condon. Thanks for your time." Once the webcam was off Sarah dumped the folder in the trash and picked up the next one in the stack. She regarded it with something less than enthusiasm. Four interviews just this morning from the files she'd chosen the day before, and not a single one had proven worth her time. To make matters worse, another dozen resumes had arrived in the mail an hour ago and she needed to vet those as well.

Sarah put the file back on the stack as Gene appeared in the doorway. He held two glasses of iced tea. One he offered to her; the other he kept for himself. He grabbed the Eames chair from Greg's desk and rolled it so he faced Sarah, then eased his lean body down and sipped his tea. His dark eyes held amusement and concern.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Newark?" She drank some tea and enjoyed the cool astringency as it hydrated her dry throat.

"Decided to take a little vacation," Gene said. "It's too damn hot to be anywhere but in the shade in my own back yard." He glanced at the stack of folders. "How's it going?"

Sarah gave him a wry look. Still, she was glad of his company. She knew he was did this as much for her as for himself. "It isn't."

"No one's lookin' good for this job?" He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankle.

"I'm not being too picky," Sarah said.

"Did I say you were?" Gene said in a mild tone. He lifted the glass to his lips as a dimple appeared in his cheek.

"Stop it," Sarah said. "It's important to find the right person for the position."

"You're trying too hard," Gene said.

"If you're gonna harass me you should have brought cookies too."

"Sarah Jane." He hadn't raised his voice, but she could feel the change in intensity. "The right person will show up."

"I can't rely on that," she said. "This is important."

"This is a position in a clinic, nothing more, nothing less. Your boy isn't worried."

"Because he knows I'm taking care of it," she said, and winced at the terseness in her tone.

"You're obsessing over it," Gene said. "Two very different things." He rested the glass on his chest as he leaned back and watched her.

"Maybe I need to obsess a little, did that ever occur to you?" She took a large swallow of tea.

"I think you need to go do something else. Set up the sprinkler for Jason and Mandy. Curl up in front of the fan with your husband and watch the game. Get some pizza from Lou's tonight because it's too damn hot to cook." He smiled a little. "Let whatever's nagging at you have a chance to surface."

Sarah didn't bother to ask how he knew; they'd been together long enough to understand each other's nuances and patterns. "Yeah, okay. I guess you're right."

"I know I am," he said, and laughed at the dirty look she sent him. He set his tea aside and held out his hand. "Come on."

Ten minutes later Sarah was in her old one-piece swimsuit, while Gene wore a pair of ragged cutoffs. He carried the sprinkler out onto the lawn amid the stands of white clover and alfalfa, going slowly so he could watch for bees. Sarah stood by the faucet. She waited until the hose was played out and he was about to put the sprinkler down. Then she turned the water on full blast. It took a few moments for the flow to travel the length of the hose, but Gene was too preoccupied to pay attention. Thus he caught a powerful slap of cold water as he bent down. Sarah laughed at his strangled yelp and took off when he dumped the sprinkler on the ground and headed for her. As fast as she was, his legs were longer and he was more determined. In short order she was hauled to the sprinkler and held in place as it drenched her. She squealed and struggled and was held tight while Gene kissed her.

"Troublemaker," he said against her mouth, and dumped a handful of cold water down her cleavage.

It wasn't until after Jason and Mandy showed up that the mysterious niggle at the back of Sarah's mind finally revealed itself. She paused in the middle of a water balloon fight, transfixed by the sudden knowledge, and was bombarded for her inattention.

After she'd gone inside and toweled off she went into the office, sat down and stared at the stack of resumes on her desk. She took them in hand, hefted their weight, and dropped them into the trash can before she picked up the phone. "I'm looking for Colleen McMurphy," she said to several people at the VA hospital. "Could I please speak with her? Yes, I'll wait."

"Doctor Goldman?" The older woman's voice held faint surprise. "What can I do for you?"

"Ms McMurphy, I know we didn't get a chance to talk when Greg and I visited over the weekend, but I'd like to change that if possible." Sarah hesitated. "How would you like to come up to our place for a few days?"

A long silence followed. "I'd be very interested in why you're asking me," Colleen said. She sounded wary.

"I'm gonna lay my cards on the table," Sarah said. "Doctor House is starting his own practice. He needs an executive secretary, someone who can handle anything, and I do mean anything. I think you're the right person to do it."

"Doctor Goldman—"

"Please call me Sarah."

"You don't even know me. You have no idea of my capabilities, my experience. Besides, I'm a nurse, not a secretary." Colleen spoke with a certain amount of coolness that told Sarah she'd better get her counter-argument in before the conversation was ended.

"Ms McMurphy, have you ever had that little voice deep inside tell you to do something, even when you know it's completely bat-shit crazy?" Sarah held her breath. A moment later she was rewarded with a reluctant chuckle.

"More times than I can count."

"Then maybe you'll understand why I'm callin' you out of the blue this way. I can't really tell you why you'd be the right person for the position. That's actually a good thing, because I believe you need to decide that for yourself. And the best way to do it is to come up here, take a look around, talk to some people."

"What makes you think I want to leave the job I'm in now?" Curiosity touched that cool tone for just a moment. Sarah fought a smile. She'd nearly won; now she'd have to tread carefully.

"I hope you'll forgive me for bein' nosy, but I watched you with the guys. You're great with them. They consider you to be both a brother and a sister, and that's not an attitude they bestow lightly, I'm thinking. You love those boys with all your heart. But it hurts to be around them, even though you've resolved most of your issues with your time in Vietnam."

"Could be," Colleen said finally. She sounded a little stunned.

"It would make sense that you'd be considering something different. What I'm offering is something very different. Greg House is a brilliant doctor. He needs someone who can handle him at his worst and at his best. I think you're the person to do it." Sarah crossed her fingers. "You both hit it off at the hospital."

"That's hardly the phrase I'd use."

"You connected. It wasn't sweetness and light, but there was something there, substantial enough for me to pick up on," Sarah said. "You saw his wounds, and you didn't pity him. And he knew it. That's a good place to start."

"And on the basis of fifteen minutes in the same room together with Doctor House, you want me to give up my work here?" Colleen made a little noise of derision.

"I'd like you to think about a visit," Sarah said. "Just to look around, that's all. You can stay at my place, we have plenty of extra rooms."

"You know this is not going to work," Colleen said.

"I have to try," Sarah said.

"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

"Yes." She said it simply. "He does."

There was a little silence. "I'll . . . I'll let you know," Colleen said. "Don't count on me saying yes."

"Whatever you decide is fine," Sarah said.

After the call was done she wandered into the kitchen, took a cookie from the jar on the counter and munched it. She watched Mandy chase Jason with a water balloon. He laughed as she launched it and got him in the small of the back, only to get drenched in turn when Jason turned around and lobbed a balloon back at her. The boy grew fast now that he was got three good meals a day, as well as anything he could find between times; he'd gained two inches in the last month, and his limbs had taken on a gangly look that meant he'd be on the tall and lean side like Gene eventually. Mandy had lost a little weight and gained a nice tan. In another year or so Jason would probably find he looked at her in a different way, and things would never be the same for either one of them ever again.

_Everything changes,_ Sarah thought. She finished off the last of the cookie and headed back outside to where her husband waited under the shade tree, as he listened to the sound of laughter and cicadas.


	15. Chapter 15

_July 31st_

Roz woke from a dream, aware something was wrong. She rolled on her side a bit and reached out to find the other half of the bed empty. Slowly she sat up and turned on the light. Greg's side was untouched, the sheets still smooth.

He wasn't in the living room; the tv was off, though the set of empty beer bottles on the coffee table told their own story. She collected them for the recycle bin and went into the kitchen. The air conditioning didn't quite reach into this part of the house, and it was possible to feel the humidity outside as it pressed to get in. A storm was on the way, and about time too. This heat wave had lasted far too long, they needed the rain and a few cool days.

As she rinsed the bottles, Roz caught a faint edge of tobacco smoke in the sultry, saturated air. She finished her task, wiped her hands and crossed over to the pantry, where she took out an oil lamp. She placed it on the counter by the sink and went on to the back porch. The heat and moisture slapped at her as she opened the door; it was like hot soup. She made her way over to the adirondack chairs they'd bought at a yard sale a couple of weeks ago. Greg occupied one of them. In the semi-gloom she could just make out an ashtray with several butts by a pack of smokes on the stand next to his chair. She took the other seat and settled in, and hoped she wouldn't be eaten alive by mosquitoes before she went back inside.

"What do you want?" he said after a time.

"Woke up and you weren't there," she said quietly.

The red tip of Greg's cigarette traced an arc in the blackness. "Couldn't sleep."

Roz said nothing. After a few moments she reached out, touched his arm, found his hand and took it in hers. He didn't resist or pull away, but he didn't return her clasp either.

"You don't have to go with us tomorrow," he said eventually. "It'll just mean you'll sit in a waiting room for hours and then sit in a hospital room and watch me sleep for hours. Total definition of boring."

She didn't reply, just squeezed his hand. After a moment he returned the gesture. His lean fingers trembled. _He's scared,_ she thought. Her heart ached for him but she knew better than to display her feelings openly, it would only push him away.

"Got a big storm coming in," she said instead. "We'll probably lose power. That transformer down by the county road bridge always gets fried."

"Don't be such a hick," he said, and she laughed softly. The tremor in his hand decreased a little. In the distance the storm gave a low, rumbling mutter.

"Nana used to say thunder was a cook in God's kitchen dropping a bowl of potatoes."

"Mom said it was giants bowling." He stubbed out the cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Seriously, you don't have to go."

"I know." She paused. "If you don't want me there . . ."

"It's not—" He stopped, went on. "It's not life or death. You don't have to go through this. I'll be home in a few days."

"I'd like to stay with you," she said softly. "This might not be life or death, but it's important to you. That means it's important to me. All right?"

"All right," he said after a pause. He sounded uncertain, but with an edge of pleased surprise behind it. She gave his hand another squeeze and felt him relax a bit more.

They sat in companionable silence for a time, as they watched flickers of lightning illuminate the clouds. The thunder grew louder and more persistent.

"Front's about three miles out," Greg said. "Moving fast."

"I just hope no one's place gets hit," Roz said. "Rewiring some decrepit old farmhouse takes all the enjoyment out of a good electrical storm."

Greg chuckled. "That's the same sentiment you have for squirrels."

"You'd feel that way too if you ever had to deal with some stupid bushy-tailed rat who ended up as fricassee because it chewed through a power line." Roz smiled when he laughed. "There's nothing more disgusting than electrocuted rodent."

The front came through a few minutes later, a cool, sustained gust of humid air followed by the first splatters of rain. A few drops hit Roz's feet, but the porch overhang protected them from the worst of the downpour.

"We should probably go in," she said just as brilliant light flashed. There was a loud snap, the smell of ozone, and an immediate clap of thunder that shook the ground. A moment later every light in the neighborhood went out.

"_Shit,_" Greg said. He let go of her hand and got to his feet. Roz followed him into the house and found the oil lamp. She removed the glass chimney.

"Can I borrow your lighter?"

Greg watched as she brought the old lamp to life. "It was my great-grandmother's," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "Made it through the Depression and the war and everything after that, including three kids and eight grandkids." She adjusted the flame to create a pool of golden light around them. She wasn't prepared for Greg's kiss, swift and harsh. It grew more gentle as his arms slipped around her, brought her close. He tasted of tobacco and beer and himself, a potent combination. She held him in turn, delighted in the feel of his lean body pressed to hers. Rain pattered against the window as the kiss deepened, grew searching and tender. When it ended she rested her forehead against his neck.

"I really do want to come with you," she said softly. His hands moved up and down her back, a gesture she always found a comfort.

"'kay," he said. She heard doubt and something else she couldn't define.

"Whatever happens, we face it together," she said. He was silent a long time. When he did speak it was low and rough as the words spilled out.

"I couldn't do it when you got hurt. I couldn't." He sounded raw, as if he was in pain. "I can't expect you—can't-"

She stopped him with her fingers against his lips. "That was then," she said quietly. "Now is what matters. Anyway, I don't keep scorecards. You did the best you could. That's what I'll do too. I want to help."

He brought her close and kissed her forehead as another peal of thunder shook the house.

They went to the bedroom. The lamp shed a wavering glow before them to momentarily dispel the warm darkness. They undressed and climbed into bed by its soft light; they made love by it too, every move and sigh gilded, doubly precious. Afterward they lay together, and listened to the rain and the occasional faint rumble of thunder.

"Do you think it'll work?" she asked after a while.

"Don't know." Greg stroked her hair. "Think so. The results are promising."

"I hope . . ." The words caught in her throat. "I hope it works." She couldn't bear the thought of him hurt or disappointed.

"Hey." He tipped her face up to his. "I'm doing enough worrying for both of us. Stop it and go to sleep. You have to be my alarm clock anyway, otherwise we'll never get to the airport on time."

She smiled, though it was hard. "Okay." She turned away from him for a moment, took the lamp, blew out the flame, and replaced it on the stand. "Good night," she said softly, and kissed his shoulder before she settled in once more. She fell asleep to the sound of his even breaths, as the rain fell soft and gentle on the parched earth outside.

_August 1st_

"It all looks so simple from up here."

Sarah stopped reading and put the bookmark in place. Greg stared out the window, his gaze intent. She could just see patches of green between the clouds; they were probably over the Laurel Highlands at this point.

"It does," she said. She spoke softly so she wouldn't wake Roz, who dozed in the aisle seat. "Clean and pure, no messy human emotions."

He nodded and tipped his head back. Sarah set her book aside and turned to face him a little. "Do you want to talk? Almost everyone else is watching the movie or listening to music."

Greg gave her an amused look tinged with anxiety. "Captive audience."

"No way," she said. "It's up to you."

"There's a lot riding on this," he said eventually.

"What do you mean?" She understood the remark, but wanted to draw him out.

"Expectations," he said. It was something of a cryptic answer, but Sarah nodded, pleased that she'd surmised correctly.

"Okay, let's break it down. First there are yours," she said. "Regaining what was lost, at least to some degree. Finding physical wholeness."

Greg turned his gaze back to the window. "Continue."

"Then you have Roz," she went on. "She wants this to succeed because she doesn't want to see you hurt or disappointed. And you have my and Gene's hopes as well." She paused as she tried to find the right words. "It isn't your responsibility to carry all of that, son. Those feelings are a natural consequence of having people in your life who want the best for you. But that still means the only thing you need to do is enter the trial and let your body heal."

"Only," he said.

"Yes, only," she said, and let her hand come to rest on his arm. "Make it a simple goal. Have the surgery done, follow the instructions for recovery, and allow yourself to find wholeness no matter what happens."

"How do I do that if this fails?" he said. "How do I find anything good then? All this effort will have been a total waste of time."

"Not a waste," Sarah said. "You'll learn things you couldn't have discovered any other way, no matter what happens. This journey is a gift. It is," she said when he snorted and rolled his eyes. "Everything that happens to us, good, bad or indifferent, is an opportunity to learn and grow if you make it so." She moved her hand down to his. "Heaven or hell, your choice."

He was silent a long time. "I don't know how Gene puts up with you," he said finally. "You're sickening."

"Thanks," she said, and gave his hand a squeeze. "Keep throwin' compliments at me and you'll swell my head."

Greg said nothing but she saw him gradually settle into the chair, his vivid gaze once more on the scenery outside the window.

_August 2nd_

"Greg. Time to wake up."

He rises through dark waters toward the sound of the voice. It's hard to open his eyes; he feels like he's stuck in molasses. "C'mon, son. You've been asleep long enough."

Someone holds his hand. Not Sarah; these fingers are too callused, and the little finger is crooked. He struggles to lift his lids and succeeds, blinks against the light. The first thing he sees is Roz. "Hey," she says softly. "All done, _amante_. The surgeon said you came through with flying colors."

"Welcome back," Sarah says from his other side; he hears the smile in her voice. He wants to ask questions, but the remnants of the anesthesia in his system pull him back into sleep.

When he wakes again, it's to find the room darkened and quiet. He turns his head just a little, expects to find Sarah there. Instead it's Roz. She still holds his hand, curled up in the chair asleep, her face turned toward him. What little makeup she wears has worn off, and her hair is in dire need of a good brush; she looks worn out, but despite the ravages of the trip and the waiting room, there is a peacefulness in her expression that tells its own story. In that moment he knows with a sudden, absolute and piercing clarity that she's there solely because she loves him.

The power of the knowledge overwhelms him. Yet he doesn't feel panic or fear, only a sort of bewildered joy that he will never admit to anyone else, not even her. He gives Roz's hand a squeeze. Almost immediately she's awake. She sits up and smiles. "How are you?" she asks quietly. "What do you need?"

After a few ice chips and a quick wash of face and hands, he folds back the sheet. "I want to see," he says.

"Okay," Roz says, to his surprise. "Sare and I thought you would. We cleared it with the nurse earlier this evening."

She helps him with the bedclothes and washes her hands before she opens the simple gauze pad and paper tape bandage. There it is, an incision about an inch long in the middle of the ugly gully of his scar, held closed with two butterfly strips. He stares at it as hope wars with fear.

"The surgeon said it'll take," Roz says. "He's done all the surgeries for the trial. He said you have more to work with than a couple of the other patients, and they're all regrowing muscle really well."

He swallows on a dry throat and closes the gauze bandage. Once everything's back in place he brings the sheet back up. His hands shake.

"Listen to me," Roz says. She waits until he looks at her to continue. "I know you'll have excellent results."

"So now you're psychic." He fights with annoyance at her attempt to reassure him and his need to believe her. "And not a single lottery number all this time."

"I just know." She says it simply. "You'll see. All you have to do is let things happen the way they're supposed to." She pauses. A look of mischief crosses her face. "Besides, I had Poppi light a candle for you after mass last Sunday." At his groan she laughs, the tiredness fled for a few moments as her face brightens with tender amusement. Her love for him spills out around the edges. In that moment his mind's eye flashes to a memory of Sarah and Gene in the back yard under the shade tree. _Heaven,_ he thinks, a little ashamed of the sentiment but still willing to feel it. He reaches out to bring Roz to him, savors the sweetness of her kiss, the feel of her warmth under his hands, her breath on his skin. She's still there when he falls asleep. Her touch eases him into the healing darkness.


	16. Chapter 16

_August 4th_

"Doctor Goldman, I could really use your help."

Sarah looked up from her book to find Greg's physical therapist in front of her. The younger woman wore an expression of utter frustration; she actually wrung her hands. Sarah sighed and put the bookmark in place. She didn't have to ask what this was about.

"Okay. Give me a second," she said, and took her phone out of her pocket. She sent a quick text to Roz: _meet me in PT 10 min S. _Then she got to her feet, stretched a little and offered the therapist a nod. "Lead on," she said.

Greg sat by a window in the PT room. He stared out at the grey day and soft rain as it fell on yellowed grass. When they entered he turned his head. His eyes widened just a little before they narrowed, to give Sarah and the therapist a hard glare. "Uh oh," he said, heavy on the sarcasm. "I'se in trouble now."

Sarah hid a smile. She wondered how many times Blythe House had confronted this attitude in her little boy—defiance plastered over anxious uncertainty. _If only she'd had the eyes to see what lies beneath, _she thought, and knew it was an unfair observation; Greg's mother had barely been able to take care of herself, never mind a little boy with gifts she couldn't begin to comprehend. "Heard you're having trouble with PT," Sarah said out loud, and gave her words a cheerful edge she knew would piss Greg off no end. She was right.

"I'm not having _trouble_," he snapped. "I need someone who knows what the hell they're doing, that's all. This moron," he waved his hand at the therapist, "should be out on the corner with a 'will work for cheap massage oil' sign around her neck."

The young woman bristled, but before the fight could start in earnest Sarah grabbed a chair, pulled it up to a table and sat down. "Let's make this interesting then," she said. "I'll arm-wrestle you. You win, I bring you a treat. You name it and it's yours. I win, you do what the therapist tells you for the next half hour without giving her a hard time."

Greg tilted his head and focused his stare on her. "Pie in the sky," he said.

"Uh uh," Sarah said. "Girl's honor."

"Hah," Greg said, but he rolled his wheelchair over to the table and locked the brake. "No cheating."

"Yeah, right," Sarah said on a laugh. "All's fair, son." She reached into her pocket and took out a ponytail elastic. She pulled her curls back tightly, secured the fastener, spit in her palm and put her arm in position, hand up. Greg smiled a mean little smile. He lifted his arm to the table and slapped his palm to hers, and the battle was on.

[H]

Roz paused in the doorway. She watched as Greg pressed Sarah's arm to the table. A few cheers and hand claps supplied by patients accompanied his victory. Sarah laughed, her fair face flushed with effort. "Okay," she said, "fair's fair. What do you want for your treat?"

Greg shook his hand. His fingers were red. "_Damn_, woman. I may never jerk off again."

"Such a whiny wimp," Sarah said. She took the elastic out of her hair and shook her head, curls flying. "Tell me what you want."

He didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Guitar." He didn't look at Sarah, his gaze averted. If Sarah was surprised she didn't show it.

"Okay, cool," she said. "What make?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Something . . . something used."

"Okay," Sarah said again. She got to her feet. "While you're waiting, how about giving the therapist a second chance?"

"Nope," Greg said. "I won. That means I'm done for the day."

Roz stepped out of the doorway. "Not if I win two out of three," she said. Greg swung his gaze around to her, then to Sarah.

"Tattletale," he accused. Sarah shrugged.

"When necessary." She glanced at Roz, her eyes bright with amusement. "He likes to use his nails," she said. "And he stomped on my feet."

"Hey!" Greg said, indignant, but Sarah had already slipped out of the room. Roz came forward and sat at the table.

"So you play dirty. Eeeeexcellent," she said.

"_Shit_," Greg groaned, but he put his arm up and gave her what he obviously considered to be his best take-down stare. His eyes glittered with anticipation and something she thought might be humor.

He won the first round. Roz made sure it wasn't too easy. "I need to switch," she said, "got a cramp in my thumb," and put up her other hand, her shortened pinky on display. Greg stared at it, then at her. A sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"Oho," he said, "dirty deeds done dirt cheap already. Fine. You asked for it."

He did indeed use his nails, though he was careful to leave her little finger alone. Roz knew it was a distraction for him, however slight. She waited for her chance, and when it came she seized it. As he pressed her arm down she faked a gasp of pain and curled her pinky as best she could. Greg relented for a moment and she pushed to pin him with everything she had.

"Bitch," he said when she let him loose. "Bring it on."

"Shut up and play," she said. She put her hand in place and looked down her nose at him. He gave her a brief grin and clasped her palm. Slowly he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Roz shivered as his lips brushed her skin. He pulled his head away as he shoved her almost to the tabletop. She caught him in time and levered his arm upward. Her breath hissed through her teeth at the strain.

"You've already lost," Greg said. He dug his nails into her palm. Roz glared at him while she slipped one foot out of its flipflop. With infinite care she lifted her leg, stretched it full-length and found his ankle. Greg flinched. "Knock it off," he growled. Roz gave him an innocent look.

"Something wrong?" She touched his skin, let her toes slide up his shin under his jeans, moved up and down with light, slow strokes as she caressed the hard muscle of his lower calf. Greg tried to pull his leg away but was trapped by the wheelchair.

"Dirty little cheater," he said under his breath, and gripped her hand tight enough to cut off the circulation in her fingers. Roz let her arm waver a bit, as if she was couldn't concentrate. He made his move and tried to force her down. She licked her lips and leaned forward to display as much cleavage as she could above her tank top. Greg's gaze flickered, and she slammed him to the tabletop. Her toes pinched him for good measure.

"Aaagh! All right already!" He let go of her and nursed his bruised phalanges while the other patients laughed and clapped, but he smiled a little. "_Brat._ Fine, I'll do my damn exercises."

Roz took his hand in hers. "I'll do them with you," she said, and lifted his hand to her lips. She brushed a kiss over each reddened knuckle. When she was done she leaned in and kissed him, oblivious to the cheers and catcalls her action created.

"Now see, if therapy was this much fun I wouldn't get bored," Greg said when he could speak. Roz kissed the top of his head.

"We're ready," she said to the therapist, who had watched the proceedings with a look of utter disbelief.

They got through the half hour of exercises and went off to lunch. Roz walked next to Greg's chair. "What's up for this afternoon?" she asked.

"You tell me," Greg said, and gave her a pinch. Roz rolled her eyes.

"The doctor said no sex for a week."

"He said no intercourse. That leaves all kinds of things on the table."

"No it doesn't," Roz said. "I was there. He said no sex for seven days after the surgery. It's only day two."

"Damn, I would have to find a woman who can count." He yelped when she thumped the top of his head with her thumb and forefinger. "Hey, convalescing patient here!"

"Horndog opportunist, more like," she said, and made him go ahead of her in line. He pouted, but brightened at the sight of the goodies she piled on the tray, along with two large fountain Cokes.

They'd just finished off a pair of enormous chocolate-chip cookies when Sarah sat down next to them. "Mission accomplished," she said, and looked pleased with herself.

"So where's the treat?" Greg demanded.

"Back in the room. I figured we could take them to OT where we wouldn't disturb anyone."

"We?" Greg stole the bite of cookie Roz had in her hand and stuffed it in his mouth. He gave her a 'haha' look. She wrinkled her nose at him, glad to see he'd moved from intractable to teasing.

"I got something for me too," Sarah said. "It was too good to pass up. You'll see."

By the time they reached the OT common room Greg almost danced with impatience. He took the first case Sarah offered him, set it on the table and popped it open, studied the contents for a moment, then removed the guitar to look it over. "Martin cutaway. This thing's a cannon," he said. He settled the instrument in place and began to tune it. "Nice condition. Where'd you find it?"

"A store on the south side. One of the orderlies took me down and back," Sarah said. She had a slightly smaller guitar cradled in her hands. It was solid black with a filigreed pickguard. "I got extra strings and some picks."

Greg glanced at her. "Epiphone, Hummingbird Artist," he said. "Decent."

"Thanks." Sarah nodded at him. "Give it a try."

Roz watched him while he played some chords—noodling, that was the term he'd used before. She loved the expression he wore when he made music. Those vivid eyes grew dark and pensive as his restless mind found a temporary respite in the mix of mathematical precision and emotional freedom music provided . . . She was brought back to the present as he launched into something bluesy. His long, clever fingers teased a complex melody from the bright strings. A few moments in Sarah began to back him with basic rhythm as she followed him effortlessly. He acknowledged her with a slight smile. Roz felt an ache deep in her secret heart. She would never be able to do this with him, would never have the ability to speak this wordless language . . . but she could listen and appreciate his skill, if nothing else.

The song ended and the patients in the room applauded, as did Roz. Sarah leaned back a little. "Sounds good," she said. "I thought it would suit you."

"Sounds great." Greg picked a couple of notes. "Nice treat."

"I think so too," Sarah said with a smile.

The impromptu session ended when Sarah headed off for a nap. Roz would have left too, but Greg took her hand when she got to her feet. She sat down again, surprised. Usually he preferred to be alone after so much interaction with others.

"You don't have to go," he said, and didn't look at her. Roz resumed her seat.

"I like to listen to you," she said quietly. He let go of her, but moved the chair so he faced away from the window and toward her. When he began to play again, the style was different—not striding or cocky, this was gentle, introspective, with a dark undertone of melancholy that was somehow sweet and not bitter. Roz sat entranced. She'd known he was capable of great emotional expression in his playing, but this was far beyond that. And then it dawned on her that he played this for _her_. The realization took her breath away. She hardly dared move, afraid she would ruin the moment, end it when she wanted it to go on forever.

She listened for a long time, while rain streaked down the window and cool soft light illuminated Greg's skilled hands as he revealed his love, note by note.


	17. Chapter 17

_August 10th_

It's been a long journey home, but they've arrived at last. Greg puts Barbarella in park, shuts off the engine and glances at Roz. She looks back at him, tired but pleased. A week out from the surgery, and everything's gone the way it should. The incision's healed nicely. Even better, though he hasn't told anyone yet, he woke up a couple of nights ago to a strange feeling in his thigh, an odd sensation of activity—not an infection, he made sure of that; it was something he still can't explain but knows is supposed happen.

"Good to be home," Roz says, and leans in to kiss his cheek. "See you inside."

She doesn't take his bag—he's insisted he can carry his own stuff, even if it's early days yet. He looks around the neighborhood. It's the same as always, dead-end street, big shade trees, shabby but still genteel older frame houses, sidewalks in need of repair—but somehow it all feels bigger, more expansive.

Eventually he gets out of the car and grabs his duffel from the back, then heads into the house. Hellboy sits on the back step as he washes a hind leg. He sees Greg and watches him with that inscrutable look cats have used for their own purposes from time immemorial. "Hey," Greg says. The cat gets up and comes over, brushes against his leg in greeting before he moves to the screen door. "Yeah, okay." They go in together. "Give us five minutes before you start busting our chops for an early lunch, you furry little grifter."

"Greg?" Roz sounds strange.

He lets the screen door slap shut behind him and tosses the car keys in the basket. "Yeah?"

"Could you come here a minute please?"

Greg can't help but smile. He already knows what this is about. _What do you know, Gunney pulled it off. I'll have to pick up some beer before I go over to the house._ "What is it?" he yells back. "I gotta take a leak."

"Please." She's a little more insistent now. The smile gets bigger. He gives a long-suffering sigh and limps into the hallway.

"What?" he grumps.

"There's . . . there's a piano in our living room. A Steinway baby grand." She sounds stunned. Greg takes a moment to enjoy the fact that she said 'our living room' before he maneuvers around her and heads for the instrument.

"Hey, what do you know," he says in mock surprise, and sits on the bench. He lifts the cover, hits middle C with his thumb, tries a few octaves. It sounds good—the tuner was in too, that earns Gunney a whole case of beer—so he plays an arpeggio C chord. It's perfection. He indulges in another run, unwilling to admit he's missed his old friend terribly.

"This . . . this is the one from your place in Princeton, isn't it?" Roz hasn't moved from her place in the doorway.

"I don't think Santa Claus left it," he says, letting his hands wander over the keys. On impulse he calls up a memory: Mac Rebennack's version of 'Iko Iko'. The music flows from his mind down his arms and into his fingers. He adds a little flash while he plays, crunches the left hand riffs to make them boom and rumble under the bright melody. It's been so long, so long . . . Sound pours into the quiet living room, fills it up. He revels in it, the delight almost unbearable. It's like good sex, to make music with a keyboard. It heightens oxytocin levels and throws open the doors of his heart, the only time it ever feels safe to let that happen outside of orgasm. God, he's _missed_ this! This music is in his blood, like a banked fire that waits for the rare moments when his attention isn't subsumed in everyday routines and demands.

Eventually he ends the song and sits there, fingers on the keys. He caresses the smooth ivory and thinks of Roz, but when he looks up she's gone. He frowns a little, surprised that she doesn't sit next to him. Most women love the piano. They love him while he plays too, the only time they ever do.

A quick search finds her in the bedroom. She empties the overnight bags and sorts out clean clothes from dirty. He stands in the doorway and watches her. Her movements aren't choppy, she doesn't throw things around, so she's not mad; the only indication something's not right is the way she won't look at him, though it's clear she knows he's there.

"Everyone's a critic," he says finally. Roz puts the last item of clothing in the hamper and sits on the bed. She still won't face him.

"You play just fine. You don't need me to tell you that," she says quietly. "You sounded great."

"What the fuck's wrong then?" he snaps. "You're acting like there's a dead cow full of maggots in the living room."

"Great mental image, thanks." She clasps her hands, lets them dangle between her knees. "It's not—not the piano . . ." She pauses. "I'm glad you have it."

"So what's the damn problem?" Now he's nervous. He's done something wrong, and doesn't know what it is—old and familiar territory.

Roz sighs a little. "You'll get mad when I tell you."

"Already there," he says, though that's not true. She bows her head.

"It's stupid," she says. He can barely hear her. "But everything's all . . . rearranged."

"Well, _yeah_," he says into the silence after this statement. "They had to make room for the piano. Kinda makes sense, don't you think?"

Roz nods. "I understand that. It's just . . ." She looks at her hands. "When I moved here, it took me a long time to . . . to find places for everything. To make it a home." She hunches her shoulders. "Now it's your living room."

This makes no sense whatsoever—all this angst over a few pieces of moved furniture. "You're an idiot," he says out loud.

"Maybe I am, but it would have been nice . . ." She takes a breath. "Things are different. And you didn't ask."

"Thought I lived here too," he shoots back.

"You do, you know this is your house now too, but—"

"Either it is or it isn't," he says loudly. After a moment she straightens, picks up the overnight bags and takes them to the closet. Greg watches her. She's still not overtly angry, but there's a wall between them—the one she puts up when she doesn't want to talk to him. After the week they've spent in Pittsburgh, after her support and closeness, this hurts like hell and worse yet, he's still not sure exactly what he did to cause this. Without another word he leaves her, goes out on the back porch and takes out his phone. When Sarah answers he says "I'm coming over."

Ten minutes later he sits in Sarah's kitchen, iced tea and plate of cookies at hand, and his shrink perched on a stool across from him. "Lay it on me," Sarah says.

"I had my piano brought up while we were gone," he says, and takes a cookie. "Now my old lady's giving me shit."

"What do you mean?" Sarah sips her tea. "Start from the beginning."

He tells her the facts. By the time he's done she's got a look on her face much like the one Roz wore.

"Let me get this straight," she says. "You didn't tell her anything about this and you rearranged the living room as well."

"So what?" He picks up the tea and wishes it was bourbon instead. "It isn't like I had the couch thrown out or broke a vase or something."

"Listen to that last sentence," Sarah says. "Think about it."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Great. Now I'm forced to ask my analyst to decode Womanese for me."

"I don't have to decode it. You need to figure this out for yourself or you won't believe anything I tell you." Sarah folds her arms. She looks a little militant, but amused as well.

"I don't know why the hell I bothered to come over here."

"Think about what you said," Sarah says. "'It isn't like I had the couch thrown out.'"

"Could have, you know." He munches the cookie and dusts crumbs from his fingers.

"Turn the situation around," Sarah suggests. "What if you were living at Baker Street and you came home one day to find everything rearranged and Roz's Shopsmith and tools sitting in the middle of the living room, with all your things in different places?"

He pauses in the middle of doing in another cookie. "She wouldn't."

"I'm not saying she would. This is hypothetical. How would you feel?"

"Come on," he scoffs. "That's not the situation."

"That's exactly the situation." Sarah is silent a moment. "You need to talk with Roz about this," she says. "If you do you'll understand why this distresses her so much."

He waits for her to go on, but she doesn't say any more. "Well?" he says finally. "Talk to her about what?"

"I can't tell you, it would be a violation of confidentiality."

Oh man, this has turned into a major fuckup and he still doesn't really understand why. That tight knot is back in his gut.

"Greg." Sarah's quiet voice pulls him out of his incipient panic. "It's all right. This is not divorce territory, okay? It's a misunderstanding. You can put this right. Talk to Roz."

"There's nothing to put right," he retorts, and dumps some of his anger on Sarah because he knows she can handle it. "Piano's here, moved a couch and a chair to make room for it, and now it's the end of the damn world as we know it." He gets to his feet. "I didn't sign up for this shinola."

"No one does," Sarah says. To his amazement she's amused. "You think Gene and I haven't had things like this happen? Sit." She shoos him back into his seat. "About a month after we moved in together I made the huge mistake of adding my CDs to his. I thought since we were a couple, it would be a good idea to consolidate." She sips her iced tea. "He didn't talk to me for a week. He had everything sorted and cross-indexed and a bunch of other craziness he didn't even bother to explain. We had quite the slanging match over that one. I think that was the only time I ever threw something at him."

Greg blinks. "_Whoa._"

Sarah smiles a little. "I'm sayin' this is one of those things that comes up when two people decide to live together. You need to work it out. The best way to do that is to talk to your wife. Find out why she's upset. I can guarantee it's not because she hates you." She tilts her head a little, her gaze bright with affection. "That's what you're really worried about, isn't it? That she'll push you away after all the closeness you had this past couple of weeks?"

He doesn't answer. Sarah reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, that butterfly touch he's come to actually enjoy. "Give your woman the chance to tell her side of things. I promise you it'll be worth it." She pats him gently. "Offer to take her out to dinner tonight when you're done. Or order in." She smiles at him. "Okay, pep talk's done. Go home and get busy, son."

It takes just a few minutes to return to the apartment. He enters the house to find it silent. A quick search reveals Roz in their bedroom. She's on the bed with her back to the door, but she's not asleep. When he comes in she lifts her head, then rolls over to face him. He stands in the doorway, afraid to get any closer. "I'd . . . I'd like to talk with you," she says softly. "It's okay, I'm not—not mad or anything."

Slowly Greg comes in. He watches her as he sits on the edge of the bed, rubs the scar on his thigh, an old reflex action. Deliberately he tucks his hands under his legs and waits as anxiety chews at him.

"I know you went to see Sarah." It's not an accusation, just a statement of fact. "She probably didn't tell you why I . . . got upset. She'd consider it a private conversation or something."

"Or something," he says, and winces a little at the harshness in his voice. "You gonna tell me or not?"

Roz slowly sits up, takes a deep breath and tucks a thick lock of hair behind her ear. She looks tired but determined. "Okay, it's like this. When I was a kid, when I still lived with my mom . . ." She stops. An expression passes over her angular features, something like sadness but not quite. "We—we moved around a lot. Mom would shack up with her latest man . . . It would last a week usually, sometimes as long as a month. Then we'd end up at Poppi and Nana's or Mom would find a place . . ." She looks down. Now Greg knows that look she wears. It's shame. "A lot of times I'd wake up in a strange room by myself. My toys and clothes would all be gone. Mom usually didn't feel like packing so she'd leave all my stuff behind or just throw it away. I'd have what I was wearing and any toy I'd taken to bed, and that was it." She draws an invisible pattern on the sheet with her finger, slow and careful. "It wasn't until I went to live with my grandparents that I got to keep things for more than a few days."

Now he gets it. He understands the need for permanency; as part of a career military family he'd moved more times than he can remember, and with every change came the unspoken longing for constancy, for a place that remained the same.

"The piano," he says. "That's my one thing, the thing that never changes." He wants to reach out for her hand but doesn't dare. Roz nods.

"The apartment is mine." She lifts her gaze to his. "I just . . . give me a little time to get used to it." She hesitates. "I would really appreciate it if—if you'd just ask me, or say something next time. Please."

"So no surprises at all," he says flatly.

"No, I don't mean that. Just . . . things that affect how we live here, I'd like you to ask first. I'll do the same," she says. It's not an ultimatum, which makes it easier for him to consider it and agree it's reasonable. He won't let her off the hook that easily though.

"I don't know," he says, and watches as her face darkens. "I say we make love while we think about it, and then we'll go out for dinner."

Her expression clears as she realizes he's dared to tease her a little. "I got something out of the freezer."

"We'll have it tomorrow." Greg reaches out and takes her hand. "You decide where we'll go. In the meantime, it's been a week."

"A week?" Roz sounds puzzled, but the slight spark of humor in her eyes belies her tone. He pulls her to him gently.

"You're wearing clothes. Have to fix that," he says, and starts to remove them.

An hour later they lie together, both enveloped in afterglow. The oscillating fan blows a cool breeze over them as sunlight slants through the window.

"I . . . made a mistake," he says eventually. He nuzzles her hair so he won't have to look her in the face. He rarely if ever admits his errors. If she laughs or gives him a hard time . . .

"Thanks." Roz strokes his side. She's quiet so long he thinks she's fallen asleep when she says "I'm sorry. I should have told you about how things were when I was a kid. It's . . . it just hurts to talk about it."

He nods, pleased that she was gracious and honest. He cups her breast in his hand, content to be right where he is.

It's much later, after they've returned from a late, leisurely dinner, that he sits at the piano. This feels familiar; all that's missing in the glass of bourbon. But things are different too. The pain that was once his constant companion is no longer. It hasn't gone away completely, he doubts it ever will truly leave him, but now it doesn't feel like some untamable force that lies in wait to destroy him. He plays a little, a few bits and pieces of melody and rhythm. When the song comes to him he smiles and lets it flow, rolls those boogie chords like gospel, slow and sweet and deep, and lets the tune sweep him away in its dark tide.

_Goodnight sweetheart, well it's time to go . . ._

After the song is done he gets to his feet and heads for the bedroom, where Roz waits as she brushes her hair or rubs lotion into her skin, or lies curled on her side while she reads with that intent expression he likes. When he reaches his destination he gives the piano a glance, glad of its presence. Then he turns off the light and goes into the bedroom, and closes the door behind him.

'_Iko Iko', Dr. John_

'_Goodnight Sweetheart', James Booker_


	18. Chapter 18

_August 12th_

Something gradually nudges Greg awake, a persistent sensation that pushes through the weird dream he's in, and brings him to full consciousness. Slowly he props himself up on his elbow and feels his scarred thigh with a careful hand. It's not hot or feverish. He glances over at Roz. She's asleep, curled up spoon-fashion but apart from him. She came home with a mild case of heat exhaustion from too many hours in some idiot's unventilated attic. He'd encouraged her to go to bed early after he'd made sure she was hydrated; now she's completely relaxed, her breathing slow and even.

He climbs carefully from the bed and stands up, and prays he won't get hit with a spasm or cramp. There are no warning signs though, no tremors or flickers of pain; it feels a bit like the descriptions of restless leg syndrome he's heard patients talk of, a powerful, almost irresistible urge to move the affected limb. With some caution he limps through the darkened room to take a leak and wash his hands, splash cold water on his face. Sufficiently awake for the moment, he heads off into the living room.

For a while he prowls back and forth in front of the television. He watches whatever he can find on at this hour. It isn't much—even with full cable and hundreds of channels, there's little to interest him. Eventually he turns off the tv and looks at the piano, but he needs to be active.

Finally Greg slips his feet into his flip-flops, grabs his cane and goes out on the front porch. It's a nice night; the humidity has moved out for a day or so after the storm that came through earlier, and there's a soft cool breeze. This is more like it. He takes a deep breath, enjoys the savory pungency of the basil Roz has in planters on either side of the steps, and heads off for a walk.

He has to go slowly because the sidewalk's uneven and there's not much light, but that doesn't seem to matter; movement is all that's required. The compulsion fades somewhat as he eases his way down the street. Above him the trees toss their leaves with a soft rustle; just beyond their reach is a sky full of stars, visible because the streetlights don't extend down this far from the village center. He pauses now and then to look at them, which gives his good leg a rest.

He rambles around the block twice. By the time he reaches the house again he needs to sit. He chooses the steps and winces as his calves and hamstrings give a few warning twangs. His meds have been stepped up a bit, because while he's been cleared to wear the TENS unit during the day as usual, it's on lowered settings. His pain levels are somewhat elevated, nothing he can't handle, but a stroll will exacerbate things. Not to mention he's out of shape for extended walks.

Still, as he stretches his damaged leg out in front of him and enjoys the cool breeze, he thinks of what the future could hold. With the quadriceps regrown in full or even in part, he'll probably walk without much of a limp, maybe none at all. Perhaps he'll be able to actually run.

That stops him for a moment: the possibility of a daily run, the late evening kind—five, six miles on a good night—and in this small village there'd be little to no traffic, with plenty of choices for routes so he could vary his routine enough to keep boredom at bay . . . He breathes deep, remembers the glory of heart and legs as they pump, sweat beaded on his forehead and arms.

And he could participate in sports again, some slow-pitch softball or golf. He doesn't have any illusions about lacrosse or football, he's not up for that much rough play anymore, though a part of him longs to participate in the rough and tumble, the sheer physicality. The reality is that when he gets up in the mornings now, he can feel the stiffness in his joints, the aches and pains of a body grown older, less supple. He's not decrepit by any means; certainly Roz hasn't complained when they make love, even when he has trouble with the whole procedure. But he's also not thirty-five anymore either.

As he sits there in the velvety blackness he can't help but resent the time wasted, spent in pain and misery, locked out of a part of himself as essential to him as his music. Nearly twenty years, half of them in his physical prime, were taken away and set just outside his reach, to taunt him with their inaccessibility. He can still feel the rage deep within, the fury and bewilderment at the unexpected, lightning-quick loss—one day a more or less whole man physically, to find a week later he had a crater big enough to put his fist in, where his right thigh should be.

It comes back then, the hard slam of inarticulate shock amid a wild blaze of agony at his first sight of that enormous sunken horror, full of stitches and inflamed red lines across pale, vulnerable flesh. The blessed oblivion of morphine couldn't come soon enough, but even as he slid into the darkness he'd known his new reality would wait patiently for him when he returned, inexorable as death.

He is brought out of his memories by a plaintive chirp and the brush of a tail across his forearm. Hellboy sits down next to him and rubs the top of his head against Greg's elbow. The black cat's practically invisible, but his golden eyes gleam faintly. Greg reaches out to trail his fingers over silken fur.

"How are the wives?" he asks. He's just being polite; the Heebster doesn't own a pair of balls, they were snipped some time ago according to Roz. Still, the cat probably doesn't let that stop him. Hellboy purrs softly and strokes his cheek over Greg's skin to mark him, but there's an unmistakable affection behind the act.

The two of them sit side by side for some time. The waxing moon rides high now, a cool silvery disk nestled among diamonds scattered across the black sky. Now and then a bright streak flashes dimly—only the biggest meteors in the Perseid shower can compete with this much moonlight. Greg wishes he could indulge in a cigarette, but tobacco is understandably off-limits for the forseeable future. It's too bad, because there's nothing like a good smoke on a cool evening to calm his nerves. Still, it's not worth the risk. He's come this far. To muck things up for an indulgence is not an option.

Eventually the cat hears or sees something in the sideyard hedge. He gets to his feet, stretches, offers Greg a little 'see you later' noise, and streaks off into the darkness. Greg envies him his agility, even while a small part of him exults in the knowledge that his will be restored, at least in part.

But now he feels the chill of the early morning air, and while it's pleasant, it also makes him shiver. With reluctance he gets up, stretches a little just as Hellboy did, and waits for a moment to see what sort of message his leg sends him now. The need to move is gone, at least for the moment. In its place is an odd sort of ache—not quite an itch, not really a pain, but with elements of both. It's a healing sensation, one he remembers from the time he broke his arm—he couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. When the bone began to knit together he felt like this.

A powerful sense of joy fills him, deep and wild. _It's working,_ he thinks, and puts his hand on the ugly scar. _It's working. _He wants to hurl his cane through a window, climb on the furniture, howl at the moon and dance in ecstasy. What he does instead is go back to the bedroom, one careful step at a time, in the knowledge that someday soon he'll walk without that endless reminder of what was taken.

When he climbs into bed Roz stirs. Her hand comes out to touch his arm. "You okay?" she asks, her words a little indistinct. "Been gone a while."

He slides in next to her, presses his cheek to her thick, soft hair and brings her close so they can cuddle spoon-fashion. "I'm okay," he says, and rubs her hip gently. "Just out for a little walk."

"Your leg?" When he nods her hand covers his. "It's working, isn't it? It's _working._" Her fingers tighten on his. "I knew it would."

"Go to sleep," he says. But the little voice deep inside echoes her words.

_It's working. _


	19. Chapter 19

_August 14th_

It was a glorious morning, cool, sunny and bright. Sarah let her fingers trail the wind as Gene took Minnie Lou through the village, past the church (parking lot was about a quarter full—no surprise, since most people were on vacation) and on to Greg and Roz's place. They pulled into the driveway behind Barbarella. Gene shut off the engine and Sarah popped open the door, container of fruit salad in hand. She waited for Gene to come around, then started up the sidewalk. As they approached the screen door opened and Roz came out. She hurried down the steps and met them with a smile. "Good morning," she said, and gave them each a hug. "Come on in, the coffee's brewing and I steeped some tea." She took the fruit salad and put an arm around Sarah.

"Is Greg awake?" Sarah returned the hug and moved with Roz up the steps.

"More or less," Roz said. "He went for a walk a few hours back and came back tired out. I got him to come to bed and he slept hard until about a half hour ago."

"A walk?" Sarah glanced at the younger woman. "What had him up so early?"

"I'll let him tell you, he can describe it better than I can." Roz opened the door and ushered them inside.

The first thing Sarah saw was the piano. "Oh," she said. "_Oh_ . . ." She came up to it, everyone else forgotten for the moment, and ran a reverent fingertip over the glossy dark lustre of the wood. "Hello beautiful," she said softly.

"That's _my_ instrument you're making free with." Greg stood in the doorway. He glowered at her, but his gaze held amusement. "I suppose you'll want to play it."

"Could I?" She sent him a quelling look. "Play the piano, not you."

"Buzzkill." Greg gestured at the bench. "Have a seat. Give us your best version of 'Heart and Soul'."

"Come on," Gene said to Roz. "Let's get breakfast started or we won't eat till sundown."

Sarah ignored her husband as she settled on the bench. Gently she touched the keys, played a few chords to get a feel for the action. It was beautifully responsive, with a mellow, sweet tone she remembered from the time she'd played it in the apartment at Baker Street. An impulse to show off and also tease her audience a little tugged at her. Mentally she sorted through her church-day repertoire, chose a song and began. It had been some time since she'd been called on to play the old standards, but the sheer weight of years of repetition had graven the music deep in her mind and muscle memory. It took only a moment to fall into the rhythm. Memories flitted past, bits and pieces of the many services she'd attended, when only the chance to play had made them tolerable; she'd volunteered for every musical position in the church just to keep her sanity. That got her through high school and out of her grandmother's house at least. But now with distance between her and those days, she could appreciate the experience and what it had taught her about improvisation, and the use of expression to move her audience. It was a crash course, and it still gave her great results.

She finished with a flourish and folded her hands in her lap as she'd been instructed so long ago. Greg was silent a moment. "Who taught you to play stride?" he asked.

"My grandmother."

He snorted. "I'll bet she never would have put up with you laying that heathen beat on 'What A Friend We Have In Jesus' the way you just did now."

Sarah smiled. "The congregation loved it. They wouldn't have known it was the devil's music. Anyway, Grandma didn't object. She said we were supposed to make a joyful noise." She laughed softly. "I think she just liked the way it sounded."

"It's not too shabby." Greg nodded at the keys. "Play some more."

So she gave him 'I've Got A Mansion' and 'Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing' before she deliberately slipped into boogie-woogie mode and started the top hand chords and melody for 'Mess Around'. It didn't take Greg long to catch on. He added a rumbling menace of a left-hand riff. They had a good time, and ended on a laugh as they slid into the end more or less together.

"If you two are done with corrupting your revival meeting, breakfast is ready," Gene said from the kitchen door.

Sarah stroked the ivory keys in parting and shut the door firmly on the remembrance of Sundays past, to fill her plate with the glories of Sunday present: one of Roz's blueberry muffins still warm from the oven, an omelette filled with pepper jack cheese, onions and sautéed mushrooms, and some of her fruit salad. There was a cup of tea as well, hot and fresh. It was the best way to offer praise she'd found since she'd left the church for good, and she participated in the worship service with alacrity and enthusiasm.

Once these dainties had been devoured and second helpings chosen, Sarah started the discussion for which they'd agreed to meet. "Everyone's ready to head down the shore next weekend, right?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yes, _Mom,_" he said in a long-suffering tone.

"We all also know," Sarah ignored Greg's provocative tone, "that Wilson will be with us."

"How is he?" Gene finished off a third muffin and sipped his coffee.

"I can tell you he's been in outpatient therapy for a month now and doing well. Darryl confirmed that assessment. Jim says Cuddy's cleared him to return to work in October." Sarah paused. "This is going to be something of a trial run for him, to see where he needs to focus his attention—"

"Yeah, because it's that simple," Greg said. He rubbed his thigh, then took his hand away.

"I'm not saying it's a cut-and-dried procedure," Sarah said, keeping her tone mild. "I'm just saying he'll be paying attention to where he has difficulties." She raised her brows. "Are you on board with this or not?"

"Like I have a choice," he muttered, but it was a clear attempt at provocation. They'd discussed this situation in detail in her kitchen a few days previous.

"Crankypants," she said-Chelsea's favorite nickname for him. He glared at her and looked away without comment. "Seriously, if anyone has any doubts or reservations about this setup, speak now."

"How does he feel about Greg being married?" Roz asked.

"He's okay with it," Greg said before Sarah could speak. "If he'd had a problem he'd have broken out of the loony bin just to prevent me from making a terrible mistake."

"Have you talked with him recently?" Sarah sipped her tea, though it was cold now.

"You're saying I'm wrong?" The challenge in his words almost made her smile. He was anxious about the situation and took it out on her as a convenient target, because he knew she could handle it.

"I'm saying you know him well and you're probably right, but you should talk to him. It would also be a good idea to let him know about the protocol you're following." Sarah nibbled on a chunk of muffin. "Unless you want to spring it on him when we get there." Greg groaned and she hid a smile. "Anyway, we'll be in Cape May Court House. Gene tried to find a place in Ocean City but they've been booked solid since December, so he got us rooms at The Doctor's Inn. It's a nice old place on the north end of Main Street, about five miles from Stone Harbor. We can drive over to the shore and spend the day, I think you still get beach tags included with your stay." She ate the last of the muffin and shamelessly stole another one from the basket. "There's a good café down the street as well as a steakhouse and a tavern, so we won't have to cook every meal. The wifi and cable service suck though, so you might want to bring sufficient items to keep yourself entertained."

"I'm bringing my wife, does that count?" Greg wanted to know.

"I happen to be accompanying mine too," Gene said mildly. "Just remember, you'll be staying in a house, not a hotel. The walls are fairly thin."

"I take that as a challenge," Greg said. Roz clasped his hand and brought it to her lips for a kiss, gave him a little smile. Sarah hid her delight. _She knows just how to handle him,_ she thought.

"From what the owner said, it looks like they're full up for the two weeks we'll be there, but any time we've stayed and it's a full house the other people have been pretty nice." She picked a blueberry out of the muffin and munched it.

"So we get weird people and Wilson too," Greg groused, but it was clear his heart wasn't in it.

"There's always Atlantic City," Sarah reminded him. "Roz and I are going to meet Kris in OC for the day on the second Thursday, so if you guys want to organize a trip be my guest."

The talk turned to other topics after that, but when Sarah went into the kitchen to make another cup of tea, Roz followed her. "Are you sure Doctor Wilson will be okay with my being there?" she said. "I had the impression he didn't think much of me when we sort of met that day at the park."

Sarah poured hot water over the teabag. "Would you like to meet with him before we go to Jersey? I can arrange a webcam conversation if you like."

Roz looked nervous. "Would-would you be there?"

"Sure," Sarah said. She stirred a little sugar into the cup. "What was your impression of Jim that day?"

"Angry," Roz said. "Upset. He kept giving me these looks as if he didn't like me."

"I don't think it was personal," Sarah said. "It's something you can ask him though."

Roz shook her head. "Maybe this isn't a good idea. Maybe I should just stay home."

Sarah set her tea aside. "You're Greg's wife," she said quietly. "Whether Jim approves or not, nothing will change that. He needs to accept the fact that you're in Greg's life now. I think if you give him enough time and a chance to get to know you, he will." She put a hand on Roz's shoulder. "I'll set up a visit in the next couple of days, okay? I'll supervise the whole thing if you want me to."

After a moment Roz nodded, but it was plain she still had reservations. Sarah patted her gently. "I know Jim pretty well. You've seen one facet of his personality, but he does have others. He can be good company, and a good friend too. Give him a chance, sis."

"I will if he does the same for me," she said, but she relaxed a little.

At the end of the day, as long shadows filled the house, Sarah made good on her promise and called Jim.

"Just what I need, another shrink checking up on me," he said when he answered, but there was a teasing tone in his warm voice that hadn't been there for a long time.

"How are you? How's it going?"

"Fine and fine. Talked to Cuddy yesterday. I can go back to work on a limited schedule starting in September." He sounded a little defensive.

"That's excellent," Sarah said, genuinely pleased. Darryl would never have okayed it if he wasn't sure Jim was ready.

"You didn't call just to ask me about something you could have found out later this week," Jim said. "What do you want?"

Using the direct approach right away was new to him. She liked it. "Roz has requested a meeting before we go to the shore this coming weekend. She wants to get to know you a little better."

Jim laughed. "Smart woman. After the way I treated her during our first meeting, I don't blame her."

"So you'll do it?" Sarah held her breath a bit.

"I owe it to her," Jim said. "How do you want to set this up? Conference phone call? I'm assuming you'll be listening in, in case I trample her or something."

"We thought a webcam meeting would be a good idea," Sarah said. "I don't expect you to trample anyone, but I think you'll both be more comfortable if someone you both know and trust is in the room with you, so to speak."

"Yeah, okay." Jim was silent a moment. "What's she like? She was pretty quiet, but then she'd been injured and was in quite a bit of pain."

"You'll see when you meet her."

"Aw come on," he wheedled. "Just a hint or two?"

Sarah smiled. Some things hadn't changed. "She's an electrician. Practical and rational to a fault, but she likes to read all kinds of things including poetry." She paused, struck by a new thought. "Her sense of humor is a bit like yours, very dry. I think you'll get along pretty well."

"An electrician?" Jim said, bemused. "House married a blue-collar babe."

"Yeah he did," Sarah said, amused. "I don't think he has any regrets."

"No one does in the beginning," Jim said. "Okay, just let me know when you'd like us to meet and I'm there."

"I think Tuesday would be good. I'll clear it with Roz and get back to you." Sarah paused. "Everyone has regrets," she said. "Even if you've been happily married for years."

Jim didn't say anything at first. "I'd like to find that out for myself someday."

"I hope you do," Sarah said, and swallowed on the lump in her throat. "I'd like to see you find some joy."

"Thanks. I'll—I'll wait to hear back from you then." Jim cleared his throat. "It's great to talk to you, Sare. And I just wanted to say . . . thanks for all your help when I was at Mayfield. You made a huge difference just by listening."

"You're welcome. I'm glad I could help. Talk to you soon."

When the call was ended Sarah went out into the garden. She sat in the old windsor chair, and enjoyed the sweet smell of ripe melons and herbs, the heady pungency of tomatoes. She'd already begun to can salsa and sauce this past week; on the way home from Jersey she'd snag a couple of bushels of peaches and the first apples of the season. _Everything in its time,_ she thought, and looked up as Gene took the seat next to hers, beer in hand.

"Nice work today," he said, as he settled in. "Greg let me examine his thigh. I can't be completely sure, but it feels like there's some muscle growth—not much," he warned on her indrawn breath, "it could just be wishful thinking. But he told me he's feeling an odd sensation at the site of the surgery, a bit like when you have a healing bone break." He tipped the bottle back for a long swallow of beer.

"So it's working," Sarah said. The lump in her throat was back. "It's _working._"

"Yeah, I think so." Gene took her hand. "I'm not a church-goin' man but I'd say that counts as a blessing."

She nodded. "It is."


	20. Chapter 20

_August 16th_

Sarah listened to another rumble of thunder and hoped Roz would arrive before the deluge. They'd been hit with one strong storm the night before, and now another was on the way. It was a damp, chilly evening, which made a good excuse to build a fire in the woodstove. The homely sound of seasoned wood as it burned would add a bit of ease to the proceedings.

Once the fire was well started, Sarah took her mandolin from its case, gave it a quick tune, then sat down and tipped the chair back. She began to play 'Soldier's Joy' slow and careful to get the notes and chords under her fingers. She enjoyed the sound of the melody mixed with the patter of rain against the window. In another month or so she'd be ready to join the bluegrass circle at the fire hall, though the thought intimidated her. Most of the players were well above her level of competency, and they'd known each other for years; she'd never really attempted to come into their group, she knew how clannish such meetings could be, and how they tended to treat outsiders.

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained,_ she thought, and looked up as Roz came into the doorway. Her dark hair was spangled with rain but she looked otherwise unscathed. "Am I late?" She went over to take Greg's Eames chair.

"No, you're right on time." Sarah moved over to make room. "How was your day?"

"Busy." Roz eased into the chair and settled back. She looked tired, a little apprehensive.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"A bottle of whiskey sounds good about now." At Sarah's chuckle Roz rolled her eyes. "I'm not kidding."

"How about a little whiskey in some Coke?" Sarah said with a smile.

"Sounds absolutely terrible. I'll take it."

When Sarah returned, Roz held the mandolin as she examined it. "I heard you practicing when I came in," she said. "You sound really good. Gonna sit with the guys at the fire hall?"

"Maybe." She put the drinks on the desk and accepted the instrument when Roz handed it over. "I've got a little more work to do before I'm good enough."

"Don't worry." Roz sipped the Coke, made a face and took another swallow. "I've heard those guys play. You're as good as they are, maybe better."

"Seriously?" Sarah gave Roz a mock-stern look. "Don't kiss up."

"No way, I mean it. You should go." Roz set the Coke aside. "Okay, let's do this before I lose my nerve completely."

"Hey . . ." Sarah put a hand on Roz's knee. "It'll be okay. Jim's a good guy, you'll see."

"Yeah. Let's just get this over with."

Sarah gave Roz a pat and booted up the computer.

Jim was ready for them, as she'd expected; he'd always been a stickler for promptness. "Ladies," he said. He looked nervous too. Sarah gave him an encouraging smile.

"Jim," she said. "You and Roz have met before, but maybe introductions are in order here anyway."

"Sure." He managed a brief stretch of the lips. "James Wilson. Nice to meet you, Mrs—Mrs. House." He paused. "You have no idea how strange it is to say that."

To Sarah's relief Roz returned his attempt at a smile with a genuine one, though she was still apprehensive too. "Doctor Wilson. I'm Roz Lombardi House. Just call me Roz."

"Okay. I answer to either James or Wilson." He sat back, a hint of speculation in his dark eyes. "Do you mind if I ask how you met House?"

"He bumped into me at an auction. Literally," Roz said. "I accused him of copping a feel and he growled at me. We exchanged a few insults and then we parted ways."

"Huh." Jim sat back a bit. "A match made in heaven then." Roz laughed. Sarah hid a smile. _They're more alike than they know,_ she thought.

"Between heaven and someplace warmer anyway," Roz said. She sat back in her chair, a little of the nervousness gone. "Most days it's closer to one or the other, but I've got no complaints."

"Then you're unique when it comes to dealing with House. That's—that's a good thing though," Jim said.

"It is," Roz said. "So how did you meet Greg, if I may ask?"

"Ancient history," Jim said with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "We were attending the same convention in New Orleans and House was bored. He saw me at the bar, carrying a FedEx package—divorce papers, but I couldn't read them and equally couldn't let them go. Some guy was playing a song over and over on the jukebox and it annoyed the hell out of me . . ." Jim shrugged. "One thing led to another and House ended up bailing me out of jail just because he thought I was interesting. We've more or less been friends ever since."

"That sounds exactly like him," Roz said.

"I understand you're an electrician," Jim said after a pause.

"Yeah," Roz said. "Mostly wiring houses and upgrades or repair, but I've also been known to fix the occasional toaster. I do industrial jobs too."

"That was how you got hurt, wasn't it?" The warm concern in Jim's voice was sincere. Roz nodded. "You're—you're all right now, everything healed okay?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Just a slightly shorter little finger and some scars on the arm, but nothing worse than that." She picked up her Coke and sipped it, made a face. Jim raised a brow.

"You all right?"

Roz nodded. "It has whiskey in it."

Jim laughed and held up a glass tumbler filled with ice and an amber liquid. "So does this. I guess great minds think alike."

Roz chuckled and relaxed even more. "Good to know." She hesitated, then went on. "Greg told me you're head of the Oncology department at his old workplace."

"I was. I'm not now." There was no bitterness in his tone, something Sarah noted with approval. "That's something I have to discuss with my boss and my analyst, whether or not I'll still be department head. I want it, but it's . . . it's debatable whether or not it's a good idea for me to have it."

"That must be a tough decision," Roz said softly, and Sarah did smile this time. Roz could be tough and uncompromising, but like her husband she had a deep sense of compassion that surfaced at exactly the right time and for the right reasons.

"I've got good advisors to help out," Jim said. He glanced at Sarah. "Including the one sitting next to you."

"Sarah's the best," Roz said simply. Sarah felt her cheeks grow warm.

"Thanks," she said.

"What's that you're holding? Is it—it's a . . . a mandolin, isn't it?" Jim peered at the screen. "Gonna serenade us with 'O Sole Mio' down the shore?"

"Very funny," Sarah said, and felt someone behind her. She tipped her head back and wasn't surprised to find Greg in the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, arms folded. Jim spotted him too.

"House," he said, his tone neutral.

"Wilson," Greg said in return. "All ready to go to Cape May. Got your meds packed and Nolan on speed-dial, no doubt."

"Yes and yes," Jim said. He sounded amused now. "How about you? I won't have my prescription pad with me so you're out of luck if you don't bring your own buzz."

Greg acknowledged this riposte with a slight nod. "How's the interrogation going?"

"The getting acquainted is going just fine," Sarah said before anyone else could answer. "Stop hovering and find something else to do at least twenty feet away from the office for the next five minutes. Please," she added. Greg stared at her, then unfolded his arms, straightened and took off.

"That was rude," Jim said mildly.

"It was necessary," Sarah said. "Now where were we?"

"Mandolin," Roz said.

"We can discuss that later," Sarah said. "Back to the two of you."

"Bossy-boots, isn't she?" Roz said to Jim.

"Always was a control freak," Jim said. "Even in college. She'd put her books in her backpack in a certain order every morning, and god help us if the teakettle didn't have hot water for a cuppa by seven sharp."

"You're one to talk!" Sarah said, indignant at this vile calumny. "Who had to have his lunch packed and in the fridge before ten p.m. every night? Who freaked out when he had to use a washcloth twice?"

"Hah," Jim said with a grin.

"Double hah," Sarah said, and jumped as something hit the back of her head—a peach pit. She turned to find Greg in the living room. He watched tv, but with a bowl of peach slices cradled against his chest.

"Sorry," Greg said loudly. "Sorry about that, gosh, it just sort of slipped out of my fingers. I didn't mean to interrupt that highly intellectual conversation you were having."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. The situation was indeed out of her control; better she just let it run the way it needed to.

"Okay," she said, "I get it. Carry on." She set the mandolin aside, got to her feet and went into the living room, to stand next to Greg's chair. He didn't look at her. "Jim's right, I was rude," she said, and put a hand on his shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry." She left him then and went into the kitchen to get a peach for herself. When she came back Greg had taken her seat in the office. He sat next to Roz, and growled at her when she snitched a peach slice. She laughed at him and Jim rolled his eyes. Quietly Sarah settled into Greg's easy chair, picked up the remote and began to surf. After a moment she took a bite of peach and savored the sweet juices, as she did her best to ignore the conversation and laughter from the other room.

She went to bed shortly after Greg and Roz left. The room was damp and chill, so she built a nice blaze in the fireplace and sat by it for a while, lost in thought.

"Hey." A kiss on her temple brought her out of her reverie. Gene sat down on the bed facing her. "How'd everything go?"

"Pretty well," Sarah said and stretched. "Found out I'm a control freak."

Gene gave her a dry look. "Wow, news flash."

"Oh hush," she said. "No, I mean I was trying to keep things going the way I wanted them to, then they went the way they were meant to. Took a peach pit upside my head to get me to see it—"

"Greg, no doubt," Gene said, "figures he'd be the one to get you to see what was going on." He stripped off his tee shirt, and Sarah's attention moved from the welcome warmth of the fire to her husband's chest and shoulders. He wore only his jeans now, since he'd gone around the house barefoot all day.

"You must be cold," she said, and worked hard to keep her voice neutral.

"I could handle a little extra body heat," he said, his tone as mild as hers.

They ended up snuggled under the covers, to enjoy a leisurely game of slap-and-tickle exploration before they came together slow and easy. Their sighs mingled with the pop and sputter of the fire, the muted hiss of rain and wind.

"Things gonna be okay?" Gene asked later. Sarah was on the edge of sleep, that wonderful place between waking and dreams; Gene's long arm was draped around her middle, and his lean fingers cupped her breast. She put her hand over his.

"Yeah . . . I think so."


	21. Chapter 21

_August 18th_

Greg looks down at his cell phone. He holds it in his hand, weighs options, consequences, his relative lack of courage. Then he takes a breath and dials Wilson's number. It's answered within two rings; some things haven't changed, then. "House?" Wilson sounds surprised. "What's up? Is something wrong?"

Leave it to Wilson to assume disaster is on the horizon. "Everything's off. Jersey's fallen into the ocean," Greg says, and props his feet on the coffee table. Roz is away for the evening on a girl's night out with Kris and Sarah.

"Funny, I'm not talking to you under a thousand feet of salt water," Wilson says in a tone of mock astonishment.

"It hasn't reached your condo yet. Give it time," Greg says, and sips his Coke—a poor substitute for beer, it's cold, sweet and fizzy when he wants cold, clean and malty, but one out of three, that's life.

"Here's hoping it takes out everything immediately south of New York as well as the Parkway." Greg snorts at the comment. He's missed Wilson's sense of humor. "Seriously, what's up?"

"So I need a reason to call you."

"Considering I haven't heard a peep from you in months, I'd say yes," Wilson says dryly. "Label it intuition, but I think I'm right."

"A few weeks, big deal." Greg burps loud and long. "I can hang up if you want."

"You've clearly made a gigantic effort here, I wouldn't want you to waste it. So let me ask yet again—what's going on?"

Greg takes another long swallow of Coke. "Got something I need to tell you."

Wilson sighs. "So I gathered."

"Sarah doesn't want me to spring this on you after we show up in Cape May." Greg ignores the tightening in his gut. "Personally I wouldn't mention it at all—"

"House." Wilson sounds firm now. "Quit stalling. You're—you're starting to scare me, to be honest."

"Well . . . okay." Greg lowers his voice. "I woke up the other night and it was the damndest thing . . . my left shoulder started to itch and a big red bump came up, and then the skin split and this—this tiny head popped out—"

"House—"

"—it had long dark hair and blue eyes and a screechy little voice, and it started nagging me about clinic hours—"

"House, dammit!" Wilson can't keep his laughter in check. Greg pauses, surprised and rather pleased. In days of yore he'd have gotten a scolding or a lecture.

"What?" he says, and does his best to sound both innocent and injured. "You have some insane prejudice against people with two heads, no doubt."

"I have a hard time with people who yank me around just because they can," Wilson says, but Greg can tell he doesn't mean it. In fact, he knows the other man enjoys this. "So could you please tell me why you called?"

"Yeah, okay." Greg sighs. "Might as well just say it." He pauses for dramatic effect. "I'm gay."

Dead silence for two heartbeats. "Lame. And you are so full of it."

"Queer as a three-dollar bill," Greg says. "Found out just before I got married."

"Oh really. So why did you go ahead with the wedding?"

"Camouflage." Greg finishes his Coke. "Pretty clever, don't you think? I get to bang my wife and troll for rough trade at the bar downtown, and no one suspects a thing."

"You twat!" Wilson laughs, and Greg can't help but smile himself. "Now for the last time, why the hell did you call?"

"My . . . my leg," Greg says, down at last to the truth. Another silence falls.

"Okay, well . . . what? Are you . . . do you need surgery?" The genuine concern in Wilson's voice eases a little of the apprehension.

"Already had it." He tucks the empty bottle in the corner of the couch cushions and thinks about a trip to the kitchen for a fresh soda. "I'm participating in a trial run by a clinic in Pittsburgh."

"A trial—you mean a human trial, right?"

"No, lab rats," Greg says, torn between amusement and annoyance. "What the hell else would it be? That remark is just further proof you should be practicing in a back room clinic in the Pine Barrens."

"When it comes to you I never assume," Wilson says. "What's the protocol?"

"A matrix made from my stem cells and pig intestine is inserted into the area of missing muscle and it—it stimulates new growth."

"New growth." Wilson draws in a slow breath. "How . . . how much new growth?"

"Everything that's missing," Greg says. "At least that's what I'm hoping for."

"Stats?"

"Close to one hundred per cent success rate in the animal studies. With humans . . ." He swallows down his anxiety. "There are only five of us so far, but we've all experienced positive results to some degree. The trial is ongoing so we can't draw any conclusions yet, but—" He stops.

"All of you? You've all had regrowth?" Wilson sounds stunned. "House, this . . . this is—my _god!_" He is silent a moment. "How much?"

"Not sure yet," Greg admits. "Goldman thinks there's palpable evidence." He decides to go a step further. "I've been experiencing something like restless leg. Have to get up and walk or move around. I can feel something, Wilson. It's like a bone break knitting, that weird itchy ache you get."

"Holy _shit_," Wilson says in a near-whisper. He doesn't speak for a moment. "Why did Sarah want you to talk to me about this?"

Greg says nothing, knowing any reply could set off a firestorm, which is exactly what he's been dreading.

"It's about the neediness thing, isn't it?" Wilson sighs. "Yeah, I get it. Okay." He falls silent again. Greg lets him take his time. He hopes against hope he won't be about to receive a tirade. So far the signs have been propitious, but there's always the unexpected freakout to consider. "I'd expect her to be concerned. I still . . . it's tough going against everything you've been brought up to know as the truth about yourself."

That's too close to home for him to answer. "So you've tossed all your baggage overboard. Instant tidal wave." Greg can't resist a sarcastic poke.

"Says you," Wilson says. There's a glimmer of humor in his retort. "It's a wonder the Adirondacks weren't inundated with everything _you_ dumped over the side."

"Hah. So is this gonna cause a ruckus or what?" Greg snaps, and tries not to be amused. "Tell me now so I can bring my hired goons to protect me."

"No, it's—it's all good. I'm . . . I'm glad for you, House." There's a smile in Wilson's voice. "This is fantastic news."

"You could sound a little more enthused," Greg growls, secretly relieved.

"I'm doing cartwheels, okay?" Wilson laughs and Greg relaxes finally. He's not entirely sure there won't be some kind of showdown or grudge match, but it doesn't seem as likely now as it did before the phone call.

"So tell me what's up with you," he says. "Wife number five on the horizon, no doubt."

"God no," Wilson says. "Don't even wish that on me. I'm still recovering from the last disaster."

"How much did the bitch soak you for?"

"Nothing. She just wanted to walk away." Wilson sounded resigned. "I don't know whether to be grateful or insulted."

"Insulted's cheaper," Greg said. "Her loss, anyway."

"Thanks."

"Nah, don't thank me. That means you'll be paying for the pizza and beer." Greg smiled at the other man's groan. "Come on, you didn't think that would change. No way."

"Being a cheapskate is so unenlightened of you," Wilson complains.

"If I wasn't picking Canadian bacon off your side of the pie you'd think Armageddon was on the way."

"Right. How's it going with you and Roz?"

_Typical,_ Greg thinks, _to slip in a personal question right after a humorous exchange_. "You're thinking of stealing her."

"Jeez, what a great idea!" Wilson says. His words drip with sarcasm. Greg feels an absurd sense of ruffled pride.

"So she's not good enough for you."

"Number one, she's your wife, number two, I'm not in the market for anyone, single, married or otherwise occupied, and number three, she's your wife."

"You'd hit on her otherwise, that's what you're saying."

"What do you want me to say? If I say yes, you'll guard her like a watchdog the whole time we're together. If I say no, you'll be insulted." Wilson says, clearly aggrieved. "She's nice, she's cute, she's yours and I'm happy for you both. Okay?"

That has the ring of truth to it. "Bullshit," Greg says.

"Look, if you don't want me to go—"

"I didn't say that. You're projecting emotional overtones where none exist. Typical, but I digress. It's of no consequence to me whether you show up or not." Okay, that might be a little over the top. "Of course you'll upset Sarah no end—"

"Yeah, okay." And once more, Wilson is amused—another unexpected reaction. In the past there would have been hurt or indignant rebuttals laced with venom. "Can't disappoint Sarah."

"Smart man." Greg won't acknowledge even to himself that he feels a distinct sense of relief. "Don't forget your boogie board."

"You'll need water wings. Ah, forgot-you already have love handles." Wilson hesitates. "It's—it's okay for you to swim, right?"

"Yes, it's been established I won't dissolve or come apart at the seams when immersed in salt water. Not so sure about you though."

"After the last six months I'm pretty certain salt water won't give me problems." The wry tone in Wilson's voice tells its own story. "House . . . I really am glad for you. This is tremendous news. No one deserves this chance more than you do."

That's a tough one to answer. "Thanks," Greg says finally. "See you at the rendezvous point. Don't forget the explosives and the detonator."

"Everything's packed and ready, agent UltraDeathWeasel," Wilson says in an ominous undertone.

"Hey, I was UltraDeathWeasel _last_ time! We're supposed to trade off! I want to be FluffyUnicornLove! You always get the best names."

Wilson chuckles. "Good night, House. See you on Sunday."

When the call is ended Greg tips his head back and closes his eyes. He thinks over the conversation. Some unexpected replies, but Wilson is still Wilson, just . . . better. That feeling of frantic despair is gone at long last, replaced by something like calm, with an edge of resigned peacefulness that tells him his friend still has more to work on. But it's a good start, and preferable to the way things were before Wilson's stay at Mayfield.

Greg settles himself into the couch, picks up the remote and turns on the tv, ready to immerse his attention in a game.

[H]

Roz came in through the back kitchen door, Hellboy at her feet. "You greedy old thing," she said with affection as the cat rubbed against her leg and looked up at her expectantly. She set her purse on the table and went to the fridge to get out some cat food. As she filled the Heebster's bowl she noticed the tv was on in the living room—so Greg was still up.

When she ventured in, it was to find her husband out cold with the eleven p.m. news just ended. She studied him for a moment. In the soft flicker of the tv's screen light, he looked drawn. He'd had trouble sleeping through the night for the last week in particular, and while it seemed to be in a good cause—the development of the muscle in his right thigh—it had taken its toll on him.

She sat down next to him, gently took the remote from his hand, turned off the tv and felt him wake up. "Hey," she said quietly, and leaned in to kiss him. When it was done he leaned closer, clearly ready to fall back into sleep.

"Uh uh," she said with a smile. "Come on, off to bed with you, buster." She got him to his feet, wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him to the bedroom. "Have a good talk with Wilson?"

"How did you know I called him?"

"I didn't." She smiled at his snort of laughter. "How did it go?"

"Same old Wilson." Greg pushed the door open, disentangled himself from her and sat down on his side of the bed as she went into the bathroom. He tugged his shirt over his head, then unzipped his jeans and pulled them off, to leave his clothes in their usual haphazard pile on the floor.

"He seems like a good person," Roz said, as she rubbed in a thick layer of removal cream.

"He's not." By the sound of his voice Greg was already half-sunk back into sleep. "But he's okay anyway."

Roz splashed her face and reached blindly for a towel. "I'll take your word for it."

"You'll see. Make sure you get all that gunk off your skin, it smells like the inside of an old lady's purse."

Roz rolled her eyes. "Yes, Master."

"Ah, she finally gets it."

When she emerged from the bathroom Greg was asleep. Hellboy was curled up against the small of his back. He lifted his head as Roz approached, his golden eyes wide. She stroked his cheek, then got into bed as quietly as she could. She turned out the light and brought the covers up as a long arm reached out and clasped her waist. She moved a little closer, and couldn't help a smile.

"Go to sleep," she whispered. "Lots to do tomorrow."

"Mmmm . . ." Greg nuzzled her hair, his breath warm on her skin. Roz moved so she was cuddled next to him spoon-fashion and put a hand on his thigh. After a moment his hand covered hers. She fell asleep with the warmth of his hand on hers.


	22. Chapter 22

_August 24th_

"Would you like some company on your walk?"

Greg pauses with his hand on the screen door. Sarah stands behind him, her curls tied back; she has on a black tee shirt and shabby jeans and flip-flops. She is awake and cheerful, and for just that alone he ought to hate her because he's tired to the bone. He also wears last night's grubby clothes, not to mention he's in dire need of a shower, a brush and a shave to scrape some of the bristle down to acceptable size.

"Huh," he grunts, which Sarah takes as assent. She comes up beside him, and off they go.

At first the walk is silent. It's a cool morning, a little muggy but pleasant. He limps along and tries hard not to notice the graceful way Sarah keeps up with him. She looks fresh and cool, her bright hair tosses gently in the slight breeze; she catches his glance at her and doesn't comment, but her gaze holds amusement and affection in equal measure. "How's the leg?" she asks finally, as they round a corner.

"Still attached."

"The restlessness is getting worse, isn't it?" Her quiet voice eases his automatic defensiveness. "How bad?"

"Two, three times a night," he admits.

"I have something that might help," she says. "Elderberry concentrate. It's a specific for leg pain, but it works well on RLS too. I use it when my sciatica bothers me."

"Psychosomatic," he sneers.

"Herbs _do_ work."

"Not on me."

She sighs. "How do you know until you try?"

Greg stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "_No_."

"What are you afraid of?" When he doesn't answer she just stands there. He rolls his eyes but she doesn't back off.

"Maybe . . . maybe I want to feel it," he says before he can stop himself.

"You're not getting enough sleep," she says. Her soft voice holds concern. He can't rebut her statement; it's true. He leans on his cane and looks away.

"I don't want to lose this feeling," he says finally. "It's . . . something." _Something quantifiable, something I can point to an indication of action,_ he wants to say, but he knows she'll understand.

Sarah's hand rests on his arm for a moment. "Okay."

They continue their walk in silence. Slowly they move around the block. Greg has to admit, the fresh air feels good. The company is even better, though of course he'd never tell her that. The ache in his thigh is less persistent now. In the last few days it's been accompanied by heat, like a slight fever in the muscle. At first this new symptom terrified him; he'd been convinced it was a rejection of the matrix after all. But there's no redness or swelling, and his base temp isn't up—he's checked enough times. It's probably because he's significantly increased his physical activity since they came to Cape May. He's gone to the beach twice, and while he spent most of his time under the umbrella with a cold beer and ogled his wife as well as any shapely girl who passed within eyesight, he also went out into the water and waded or swam for what amounted to several hours total.

"Want to tell me what's worrying you?" Sarah's quiet words slip into his thoughts. "Maybe I can help."

"Such a nosey parker," he grumbles, but his heart isn't in it. He takes a breath. "Been feeling some heat in my right thigh."

To her credit Sarah doesn't act alarmed. "How's your body temperature? Is it elevated?"

For that comment alone he could hug her. "It's fine."

"Any redness or swelling in the incision site?"

"No and no." He glances at her. "Worrywart."

She could throw that gibe right back at him, but she doesn't. "You've been fairly active," she says. "Maybe it's just from the extra exercise, but it would be a good idea to tell Gene at least. If you're agreeable he can examine you, and we can contact the clinic people."

Relief fills him, along with gratitude. "Unnecessary."

"Please consider it," she says gently. "There's no point in tying yourself up in knots worrying about this. You're on vacation. This is supposed to be a time of relaxation and renewal."

"That would be a first," he says before he can stop himself. An unwelcome memory, one among many, pops up in his mind's eye: camping with John House, a solid week's worth of misery thinly disguised as an attempt to strengthen the father-son bond that had never existed in the first place. He'd come home with more bruises that time than he'd gotten in months.

"Why not change your expectation? Or at least put your mind at ease." She lets it go at that, and allows him to decide for himself.

When they reach the house he says "Get Gunney." He goes into the bedroom as silently as possible, to find Roz there.

"Are you all right?" she asks, and her concern eases his anxiety a little because he knows she means it. He sits on the edge of the bed and nods once, unable to look at her. When her small hand comes to rest on his back he doesn't acknowledge it, but it feels good all the same, and he's able to relax a bit before the knock at the door signals the arrival of Gene and Sarah.

Gene does a thorough exam. His touch is gentle, respectful; his questions are brief, to the point. Greg can feel the tension drain out of him bit by bit as they go through a checklist together, and it becomes plain this new symptom is simply the result of increased activity, as they'd all suspected from the start. "I'd say it's in your best interest to report this to the trial monitors," Gene says at last, "but I don't think it's anything you need to worry about. Just continue to check your base temp and if you do get an elevation, or redness and swelling, let me know and we'll go from there." He very gently palpates the area around the incision site. "As far as I can tell you've got more new muscle coming in, so a little heat and soreness is to be expected." He offers Greg a slight smile. "Looking good."

After they've gone, Roz gets up and comes around the bed to sit next to him. He can't admit he's overwhelmed by this confirmation of excellent news, so he just sits there and stares at the ugly crater that has been his right thigh for the last twenty years—the one companion he could never escape. It's possible now to see that Gene is right; the scar is not the same. It's less sunken in—not by much, maybe all of a quarter inch, but he knows what it should look like, and this is different. He draws in a shaky breath, puts his hand over the hole in his leg, and is shocked to find he's got tears in his eyes, dammit, of all things.

The next thing he knows he's on his side and Roz is behind him, her body pressed to his, her slender arm around his waist. She kisses the nape of his neck, her hand on his chest. This ought to feel claustrophobic, but instead it's reassuring. It eases the storm inside him. He takes her hand in his, feels her fingers clasp his palm, and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up again it's past noon. The curtains have been drawn to keep the room dark. He's alone, but even as he thinks it Roz comes in. "Hey," she says softly, and sits down beside him. Anyone else would have asked "Get some sleep?" Instead she says "Want some breakfast?"

Half an hour later they've polished off the last of the toast and jam when someone knocks on the door. It's Sarah. She looks concerned and defeated at the same time. "We have to leave," she says. "There's a hurricane down in the Bahamas, it's coming up the coast as a Cat 3. It's going to hit here hard, which means the entire shore will be under mandatory evacuation orders by Friday."

It's no skin off his nose if they go; he's merely along for the ride. But he knows how much this vacation means to Sarah. "We could ride it out," he says.

"They'll be boarding up the inn tomorrow and Friday," Sarah says. "If we leave today we'll avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic, and we'll also get home in time to get our own houses ready. We'll probably have flooding and downed trees to deal with at the very least. Looks like this one will go into New England, so we'll be in part of its path." She rises to her feet. "Gene wants to leave by three."

"Wilson coming with or going back to Princeton?" Greg asks.

"Not sure yet," Sarah says, and leaves them, to close the door quietly behind her.

"I feel bad for Sare," Roz says when they're alone again. "She's been enjoying herself."

That she has. It's been a while since Greg saw her as relaxed and happy as she's been here. "Wonder if Wilson's coming up with us," he says aloud.

"You know Sarah will invite him. Do you think he'll accept?" Roz sets the empty breakfast tray aside.

"Yeah, he will." Greg has no doubts whatsoever on that subject. He finishes his coffee and stretches a little, pleased to find he feels better. "Should I clean up or stay as is? It's your call since you'll be sitting next to me."

"Clean up please," Roz says. She wrinkles her nose, but her green eyes hold amusement so he knows she doesn't mean it . . . much.

By a little after three they are indeed on the road for home. Greg can't help but notice the slight droop of Sarah's shoulders as they leave town. "This is your reward for being paranoid," he points out. "It'll be nothing more than a tropical storm by the time it gets here. Big deal."

"If it was just me I'd probably stay," she says quietly, and then falls silent.

"I think you're doing the right thing," Wilson says.

"Suckup," Greg says. Wilson rolls his eyes.

"I've been watching the Weather Channel. This is a big storm." He tilts his head and looks at Greg. "You've never been in a hurricane before, have you?"

"A couple of typhoons, but you forget we rode out Floyd together at my place. So to speak," Greg reminds him.

"Oh my god, so we did." Wilson laughs. "We thought the building was flooding but it was just the guy upstairs who overflowed his bathtub when he filled it with water."

"We killed two entire bottles of bourbon."

"You sent me out for pizza. The rain was coming in sideways and half the streets were flooded."

"So you came back with four large pies, a case of beer and enough Tastykakes to stock a convenience store," Greg says, and smiles at the memory. "And a bag of coffee beans."

"And you with no grinder," Wilson says. "We ended up smashing them with a hammer in between watching porn—" He stops, glances at Roz and looks sheepish.

"It's okay," Roz says. "I know he's a horndog. Keep going, this is a good story."

Greg listens to Wilson charm his wife and make her giggle. Therefore he's inordinately pleased when she puts her hand on Greg's knee and gives him a gentle massage with her fingers. It's a pleasant feeling, this casual contact, and something he never takes for granted with her. After a little while, when the conversation ends, her head comes to rest on his shoulder. Soon he feels her relax into sleep, her breathing slow and even. He lays his cheek to her hair and watches the scenery flash by until he falls asleep too.

[H]

James could barely believe what he saw. Gregory House, the world's most miserable, misogynistic, selfish and arrogant brilliant mind, was cuddled in the middle bench seat with a woman he had voluntarily made his wife. If the evidence wasn't right there in front of his eyes James would never have believed it possible—yet here it was. And what was even more incredible, he looked content. _Content!_

A large part of him was genuinely happy for his friend. He'd seen House struggle with misery and pain for many years, and knew now that he'd had a difficult and lonely childhood as well; for him to find someone to love who so plainly loved him in return was a great gift James would not begrudge him. And yet . . .

_Face this._ He struggled to follow the counsel Nolan had given him. _Don't rationalize it away._ Easier said than done, however. He could feel resentment creep in, partner to the envy that always accompanied it. _How did he rate this? How did he manage to find people to support and care about him? The man's an ass. He's still an ass for the most part. How does he __do__ it?_

His thoughts chased around in his head and he couldn't shut them off, so he was glad when Sarah said eventually "We're going to stop for a while to stretch our legs."

A short while later he sat next to her at the picnic table where she nibbled a sandwich. "Can I talk to you about something?" he asked. Sarah put the sandwich down and faced him.

"Of course."

"I can't get these feelings out of my mind," he said without hesitation, as Nolan had encouraged him to do. "I see House with his—his wife—" He stopped, disgusted with himself for being unable to articulate his emotions.

"You want what he has," Sarah said.

"I . . ." James sighed. "I don't understand how he managed it. I . . . I resent him for this. I envy him. It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't help it."

"It's not stupid. It's human."

"So what do I _do_ about it?" He brought the flat of his hand down on the table, but pulled the punch right before he smacked the weathered board. "Dammit, I'm sick of feeling this way!"

"You can't force yourself to not feel something," Sarah said quietly. "So try another approach. Ask yourself why you're feeling the way you do."

"Well that's obvious," James said, disappointed.

"Is it?" Sarah gave him a faint smile. "Look past the first answers that come up. Dig a little deeper." She folded the wrapper over the sandwich. James took a closer look at her.

"I'm sorry," he said, chagrined at his lack of awareness. "You're hurting and I came to you with this. Sare . . ."

"I'm glad you trust me enough to do so," she said simply. "I'll feel better after a while. Anyway," her smile widened just a little, "I might get an extra week in Key West out of this if I play my cards right."

At that point the others came over to scavenge through the leftovers in the cooler, which ended the impromptu session. But James took her words with him back into the van and thought about them. _So what does come up past the first answers?_ He let his mind drift as he watched House and Roz play a handheld video game. That was a first—House never let anyone mess with his toys, but it was clear he'd shown her how to kill zombies or whatever. It was clear they enjoyed themselves, if the desultory conversation and relaxed body language was anything to go by. House had only acted this way around Stacy, but even then he'd kept a barrier between the two of them. Now however . . . The answer struck him just as Roz completed a level. _They're friends._

But House had always been the first to proclaim the idea of men and women being friends as total blasphemy. What had changed? This new puzzle occupied him until the next stop at a diner on the New York-Pennsylvania border. James was surprised to find House next to him. "I can feel you staring holes in my back," he said. "Stop trying to figure out how I got a woman and worry about finding one for yourself."

James felt his cheeks grow warm. "I'm—I'm not," he said. House snorted, gave him a glare from those vivid blue eyes and said nothing more, but after that James was careful to keep his attention away from the couple in front of him.

It was late when they arrived at the house. "Take the bedroom at the end of the hall," Sarah suggested. "You know you like that one best anyway. Gene and I will be up early, but that doesn't mean you have to be, okay?"

James was too tired to care much where he slept, but he accepted Sarah's direction. "Will you need help in the morning?"

"Possibly. We're going down to the fire hall to find out what the plan is. After that we'll know how things will go for the rest of the week." Sarah leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'm proud of you."

"P-proud?" He looked at her, surprised.

"You've come a very long way, Jim. You've worked hard to find healing, and you're continuing to do so. It's difficult to keep going. So of course I'm proud of you." She smiled at him.

"Okay, well here's another step forward," he said, and knew this was the right moment. "Don't call me Jim. It's James."

Sarah's eyes widened a bit. Then she dropped her duffel and gave him a fierce hug. It was the last thing he expected her to do. Slowly his arms came up to hold her. When she moved back she looked like herself for the first time that day. Warmth suffused her features, and her eyes were bright with affection and a hint of tears. "All this time . . ." She gave his arm a light smack and laughed, that sweet, infectious sound he'd always delighted in. "You _bastard_."

"Hey," he protested. "Progress is progress."

"You're right. James," she said. Her smile widened. "James Evan."

"Now don't go overboard," he said, his tiredness forgotten for the moment. "James is fine, thanks." He turned toward the staircase, feeling lighter than he had for weeks. "'night, Sarah."

"Goodnight, James." The pride in her voice went with him all the way upstairs and into bed, to ease him into dreamless sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

_August 28th_

"The power's definitely out." Sarah looked up as Gene sat down next to her. She was so tired she barely registered what he'd said.

"Well, no surprises there." It had only been a matter of time, with the way the wind gusted. She started to get to her feet, only to be eased back down on the couch.

"I took care of things," Gene said. "You haven't had five minutes to yourself all day. Besides, I built this fire just for you." He sounded aggrieved, but under the petulant tone there was a teasing note.

"It's a very nice fire," Sarah said. That was true enough; the warmth felt heavenly after a day spent out in the rain in the village as she helped fill sandbags and prepare emergency kits. She'd come home to more preparatory work: shutters closed, all sorts of items taken to the attic, and a a harvest of her garden crops. She'd managed to get a hot shower before the electricity disappeared, but now she was hungry and worn out. "It looks perfect for toasting bread and cheese."

"That sounds like a plan. We could even heat up some soup." Gene stood and stretched. "Be right back."

By the time everything was set up they'd been joined by Hellboy, who was there for the weekend of course, along with Roz and Greg. He sat next to Gene and watched with interest as the soup simmered in its cast iron pot. His ears flicked back and forth as wind howled outside and rattled the shutters. "Don't worry, you'll have plenty of warm places to sleep," Sarah told him. She ran a gentle finger down his back. "You can take your pick of beds with humans in them."

"I'm glad we had the tree crew in earlier this summer to clear those limbs away from the roof," Gene said. He put a thick piece of bread on the toasting fork and held it to the embers. "How's everything in the village?"

Sarah rested her head against the arm of the couch, and watched the flames dance. "They've got the fire hall set up as an emergency shelter, and if the power's still off tomorrow we're all going to bring in our thawed food and do a potluck for everyone. The kids are excited about missing school. This kind of thing is always such an adventure when you're young." She offered the plate when Gene slipped the toast off the fork and put a slice of cheddar on it.

"Where is everyone?"

"James went to bed, he worked hard helping out today." She still couldn't help but smile when she said 'James'. "Roz and Greg were out in the barn earlier. They were saying something about making sure Barbarella's high and dry."

"Yeah," Gene said dryly, and Sarah chuckled. "Well if they want to sleep out there, more power to them. I'm glad I've got a nice warm bed and a clean woman to cuddle with."

"Your clean woman is gonna gnaw your hands off if you don't hurry up with that bread and make me a sandwich," Sarah warned. "I am absolutely ravenous."

Soon enough they both munched toasted cheese and hot soup. Gene fed tidbits of beef to Hellboy, and allowed the cat to lick the broth from his fingers. Sarah watched them as she listened to the storm outside, grateful for her warm and comfortable house.

"I'm sorry our vacation got interrupted," Gene said. Sarah set her cup aside and folded her hands over her full belly.

"Wasn't your fault," she said. "Not unless you conjured up that storm on purpose."

"Last year it was my fault." He didn't look at her.

"That was last year," she said quietly. "There were . . . circumstances. Besides, you took me to Key West and we got married." She smiled at the memory. "_Really_ married."

Gene lifted his head. "Yeah, we did." His green eyes glinted. "I think we should do it again."

"Sounds good to me," Sarah said. "Add another week and I'll forgive you for Irene."

He stared at her. A smile tugged at his lips. "You scheming little minx." To her surprise he got to his feet and left the room. When he came back he had her mandolin in hand.

"Oh, so I have to sing for my supper?" she said, brows raised. "Or to get my extra week?"

"You haven't played for me yet," he said, and offered her the instrument. "Please?"

Sarah wiped her fingers with a paper towel and took the mandolin with some reluctance. "I'm not very good."

"You always say that." Gene settled back against the couch as Hellboy climbed onto his lap. "C'mon, pick a little for me."

She tuned carefully, and paid attention to the A string that always slipped a bit in wet weather. Then she began to play 'Soldier's Joy', slow at first, to let her fingers warm up. Gene grinned at her, a tacit acknowledgment of the teasing poke at his expense. Sarah let the melody pick up speed as she grew more limber. While she loved her guitar, there was something about a mandolin she found more comfortable. Maybe it was the sound on a wild night like this—cheerful, sweet and resonant, a small voice but a powerful one.

When the song was done she moved on to an O'Carolan tune, 'Beauty in Tears', one of her favorites, then to a Scottish reel, 'Money Musk'. When she finished Gene smiled at her.

"You're a natural," he said. "You've got a gift for it, Sare."

Sarah ducked her head, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "There's something else I'm working on," she offered. "I found it at the Mandolin Café online. It's from a book of medieval airs for lute transcribed for mandolin . . . it just caught my ear."

She played the melody line from 'Cantiga 119' for him, then said softly "Why don't you get a guitar and join me?"

Without a word Gene displaced the cat on the floor with gentle hands and got up, to return with the Martin. He sat cross-legged, tuned the guitar with care to match the mandolin's register. When he was ready Sarah played the melody slowly. Gene listened, his dark head bowed. On the second play-through he began to match chords to the tune. It took a little doing, but by the third time around he had it figured out. They played it slow at first, then picked up a bit of speed as the notes grew familiar. Sarah enjoyed the sweetness of the minor intervals that still sounded happy.

"This would be perfect for Yule," Gene said when they ended the song. "Are there tabs available?"

"There's a book with the CD," Sarah said, delighted by the idea of ancient airs played in the house during the holidays. "Let's do it."

"Sounds good to me." Gene sat back and smiled at her. He began to pick 'Soldier's Joy', just noodling. "We'll have to practice."

"How about two hours and dinner out once a week? We can woodshed on our own. It'll be more fun than sitting home watching a movie on tv on date night. We've gotten kind of lazy about that," Sarah said. She began to play the song with him.

"Love it when a plan comes together." Gene didn't speak for a moment. "We could have an in-home concert just for us and some friends at Yule, and then we'll take an extra week in Key West."

"Well I don't know," Sarah said, and knew she sounded doubtful. "An extra week in Key West, that's gonna be pretty expensive. You really should consider that, you know."

Gene stopped playing. "Brat," he said, and gave her a baleful squint. She grinned back and sped up her playing, a silent dare for him to follow her. He shook his head but kept pace as his long fingers picked the chords with ease. When they finished she hammed the ending with a tremolo chord. Gene laughed. "Three weeks it is," he said, and leaned in to steal a kiss.

[H]

James lay in the darkness, unable to sleep. It wasn't the storm outside that had him awake; his attention was elsewhere.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but he'd left his door open, and the sound of two people in the living room had caught his attention. He knew it was Gene and Sarah; House and his wife—god, how strange it was still to think that!—were outside in the barn, of all places. Why the hell they wanted to stay in some leaky, drafty, unsafe structure was beyond comprehension, but then House's motivations and reasoning often made no sense to anyone but him.

It wasn't possible to hear what Gene and Sarah said, and anyway the noise of the storm blurred the individual words. But James could feel the intent, sense the emotions. There was an easy give and take, a sort of . . . he searched for the word . . . _comraderie_, that he had never had with any of his wives or girlfriends.

_Comraderie_, his inner voice scoffed. _Call it what it is. You mean friendship_.

That observation took him aback. James rolled on his side and stared at the sliver of light from the doorway. Was it that simple?

_You saw it with House and Roz. They're friends as well. Why are you having such a tough time accepting this?_

"Men and women can't do this," he said out loud. He'd never entertained the thought with any of his wives or the women with whom he'd had affairs. There was sexual flirtation, teasing, an emotional bond, but friendship was something else entirely—a fantasy, as far as he was concerned. "Why would I want to be friends with someone I'm having sex with?"

_Why wouldn't you?_

His first impulse was to push the question away, but Nolan had often prompted him to probe these unexpected thoughts. With a sigh James rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"I came closest with Amber," he said softly. The now-habitual sadness he felt at the memory of her eased into his mind, but he could tell it had lessened, wasn't as all-powerful as it had been. He didn't like that diminishment; he wanted his grief to stay new and sharp, but there was nothing he could do about it. Time might not heal all wounds, but it did wear away the rough edges of pain, the way water wears down stone.

Amber hadn't been like the others. She was strong, aggressive, independent. Life with her had both excited and scared him. He hadn't known how to deal with someone who didn't require his constant care and attention. He'd often felt unsure of himself around her, and yet she hadn't humiliated him or mocked his ineffectualness—well, not too much anyway, but there had almost always been a gleam of humor and affection in her eyes when she'd done it. She'd encouraged him to disagree with her, to express his own opinion without worry about whether or not he'd offend someone. He'd been brought up to take care of everyone else's needs before his; to deliberately reverse that course had been heady, exhilarating. But had it been friendship?

He thought of House and Roz in the car, the way Roz's head had rested on House's shoulder, his quiet chuckle at something she'd said, her soft voice as she asked a question. They'd fitted together—not as if they'd always been meant to, but because they'd chosen it for themselves. It was a conscious decision, and it made sense. House had no patience with the notion of Fate or destiny or anything that smacked of irrational belief. Roz seemed to be of the same mindset. Maybe that was the key . . . to choose someone to be friends with first. The idea nearly made James laugh out loud. What woman on earth would want to be friends with _him?_

Music drifted up from the living room—Sarah, undoubtedly. He listened to the plaintive melody. Eventually Gene joined her, just simple chords. At the end of the song they spoke, played it again, ended it in laughter and a long pause that told James they did something besides make music. There it was, that same ease together he'd seen with House and Roz.

_They trust each other. _And he'd never trusted a woman in his life, with good reason as it turned out. But then he hadn't been a poster boy for devotion himself, so maybe it was a case of like attracting like.

He lay in the darkness a long time, listened to the bits of music and the storm outside, a mirror to the one within him, until exhaustion carried him off into sleep.

The next morning, when he stumbled into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, it was to find Kris at the stove. She wore one of Sarah's aprons over a tee shirt and jeans, her thick hair tied back in a makeshift ponytail. When he came in she glanced over and gave him a smile, and he saw she wore no makeup. He'd never seen her look less than put-together, always beautifully dressed, always lovely. Now she looked impossibly young and vulnerable, but there was an assurance, a self-confidence that reminded him a bit of Amber, but without the sharp edge of ambition she'd often displayed.

"Looking for some coffee? There's a fresh batch in the pot," Kris said, and went back to her hash browns.

"You're already up," James said, and winced at the idiotic observation.

"I went down to see if they needed help at the fire hall for the potluck later today. They put me to work filling sandbags, hence my glamorous appearance." She chuckled. "I think this is going to be my new look for a while." She didn't sound upset about it, just matter-of-fact. James took a mug from the collection by the pot and filled it.

"You—you look fine," he said as he added sugar and stirred. "Could they use another volunteer?"

"Sure. You can go with me after breakfast if you'd like." She glanced at him again, and tossed a glimmering smile his way. "I'd like that."

"Me too," he said, more out of reflex than anything else. Still, when he sipped his coffee he realized it was the truth. He enjoyed being with Kris. Through her visits to Mayfield and then to Princeton he'd gotten to know her better and liked what he'd discovered, and for some strange reason she appeared to feel the same way about him. She'd been more of a friend than anyone—

He stopped, struck by the phrase. A reluctant but genuine smile curved his lips. "More of a friend," he said softly.

"Beg pardon?" Kris began to pile hash browns into a casserole dish. "Everything all right?"

"I think so," James said. "Yeah . . . I think so."


	24. Chapter 24

_August 28th_

"It's chilly in here."

Roz snuggled deeper under the covers. "We _are_ in a barn."

"I was the last one to put wood in the stove." Greg removed his earbuds, lifted the comforter and leered at her. "Hmm, that sounds so . . . so _dirty_. How about you get up and do the honors and then I'll put some wood in _your_ stove."

She rolled her eyes. "Blackmailer."

"_Moi?_" Greg put on an injured expression. "You think I'd stoop so low?"

"Of course you would. Okay, fine." She pushed back the covers and ran to the stove. With the speed borne of long practice she opened the door, raked up the embers with the poker, shoved in two chunks of wood, made sure the new logs would fire, latched the door shut and scurried back to the bed. She dove under the comforter and shivered.

"Hey!" Greg glared at her. "You're letting all the cold air in!"

"Too bad," Roz said, and huddled in on herself. The wind outside picked up and she winced as it howled deep and low, and hurled splatters of rain against the wall. "Maybe we should go to the house."

Greg sighed and wrapped an arm around her, brought her close. "Buzzkill. We'll be fine until the walls fall in on us. Might as well have some fun until then."

"You're just so reassuring," Roz teased. She rested her head in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. Through the freed buds she could hear music. "What are you listening to?"

For answer he put both buds in her ears. "James Booker," he said softly.

The music was beautiful, and poignant with wistful sorrow and a deep melancholy that suited the wild night outside. Roz listened, caught between enjoyment and the memory of when he'd told her how music had gotten him through tough times. The thought of Greg alone and in pain, trying to find solace or maybe even oblivion, made her heart ache. When the track was done she pressed her face to his neck and fought back an urge to hang onto him tight. "I love you," she said.

"Hey . . ." He moved back a little and looked down at her, tipped her face up to his. "It's just a song."

"I love you," she said again.

"Okay, that's enough," he said, and reclaimed the buds. He looked as if he was torn between amusement and annoyance. "It wasn't supposed to make you feel sorry for me. I was hoping for something more along the lines of sex, sex and more sex."

"I don't feel sorry for you," Roz said. She tried to find the right words. "You've told me about what it was like in Princeton, and before that. It . . . it hurts me to think you were ever . . . alone, you know? I understand what that's like."

Greg sighed. He rolled on his back and stared up at the rafters. "Can we not have this conversation?"

Roz almost smiled. She dared to put a hand on his chest, let it rest lightly over his heart. He made a noise almost like a growl but didn't pull away. She leaned close and whispered in his ear. "We don't have to talk at all, if you want."

He turned his head. His eyes glittered in the flickering light of the wood stove. Roz kissed him, and made sure it was anything but gentle and tender, felt him relax as he opened to her. His tongue stroked hers. When the kiss ended she let her hand slide down below the waistband of his sleep flannels. He'd already started to rise. She worked him a little and he groaned softly and shuddered. With visible impatience he moved on his side, struggled out of his pants and tugged at her panties. She did smile this time as she lifted her bottom, removed the cotton undies and tossed them to the floor.

They took their time, deliberately kept the pace slow so the fire between them grew. When Greg tugged a pillow in place over her left thigh Roz watched him, and reached up to bring him close when he eased into her with a soft moan. It was a long and sweet ride, his mouth on hers. He left little kisses and inarticulate bits of words, her name in among them. She moved with him, delighted in the feel of his body against hers, the gathering sweetness as he drove deep and steady, his gasp and the push of his lean hips as he came. When his callused fingers found her clitoris she arched up, close to her own release. He brought her, stayed with her climax to take her higher, so that pleasure broke in her like a storm surge, to flood her mind as she hung onto him and cried out above the wind and rain.

They lay together for a long time afterward, content to be in each other's arms. The neglected iPod played on somewhere under a pillow. Roz could just make out the words over the piano.

_Everybody knows I'm crazy over you_

_And no one else but you can tell anyone_

_Just how much, how much, how I love you, love you, love you, love you_

_I guess that's all there is to tell . . ._

Roz nuzzled Greg's cheek. "Think I like James Booker," she said. He chuckled.

"It's a song about unrequited love," he said, and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "Something you won't ever have to worry about."

She kissed him, felt him smile. "Just for that I'll sleep on the wet spot tonight," she said, and enjoyed his soft laugh. He brought the comforter up over her shoulders and brought her head to rest on his shoulder. She fell asleep warmed inside and out as she listened to the steady thump of his heart and his music as well, soft but true against the storm that raged on beyond the walls.

'_True', James Booker_


	25. Chapter 25

_September 4th_

"Wow," Wilson said. His eyes widened, brows raised. "_Wow_."

"Well that's encouraging as far as it goes, but what do you really think?" Greg said.

They stood outside the clinic and looked at it from the front as it faced the road. The weather was beautiful, typical of days immediately after intense storms—sunny, cool and dry, with a nice breeze. Roz was glad to see there were no large tree limbs on the roof or standing water in the yard. The village had been spared most of the major flooding, but some homes had suffered extensive damage from fallen trees and water-filled basements.

"It's a great old place," Wilson said. "Labor intensive though, I'm thinking." He glanced at Roz. "I take it you've been working on things."

"Yeah," she said, and wondered once more how he and Greg had stayed friends. Maybe it was an illustration of the old saying about how opposites attract, but she thought there was more to it than that. There were layers to this friendship, some of them darker than others, and she wasn't sure either man was aware of them all. "I've done some work."

"More than some," Wilson said with a smile. The dappled sunshine through the leaves shifted over his face, picked out coppery highlights in his hair. "You've put in a lot of time here, I'm sure."

_He's charming me,_ Roz thought. _He does it without even thinking. It's just part of who he is._ "Some," she repeated, and didn't look at Greg.

"Modest too," Wilson said, and there was a subtle caress in the statement. Roz could feel a blush start. She didn't want attention from this man, but she also wasn't sure about how to discourage it and not cause problems. So she took refuge in flight.

"I'm going inside to make sure there aren't any leaks. Maybe Greg will show you around while I'm doing that."

"Maybe," Greg said. Roz knew he'd looked from her to Wilson.

"Okay then," she said. She walked up the steps, avoided the uneven spot at the place where the sidewalk met the first riser—another job on the ever-expanding list of things to fix—and went inside.

It was a laborious process to get into the attic. It involved the navigation of rickety, temperamental pull-down stairs, a crawl on hands and knees to avoid the rafters, as well as the use of the jerry-rigged floodlight she'd put up at the beginning of the project. Roz was familiar with the process by now, though. She was glad she'd worn jeans as she moved around the perimeter and checked the wiring work she'd done. No water damage or leaks evident either; the roofers had done a good job. There was maybe another week's worth of finish-up jobs here, and then she could concentrate on the first floor.

For a moment Roz looked around and enjoyed a sense of accomplishment. She'd created order out of considerable chaos. It had been laborious, dirty, and physically draining to put things right. The temptation to cut corners had presented itself continually, but she'd kept her goal at the forefront of her mind, and the result was now on display. This work would stand, and stand well. With a firm hand she pushed down pride—this was simply the quality of work expected of a master electrician, after all—and clambered down to the first floor, to find an argument in progress.

"—happens to be your wife," Wilson said with some vehemence. He and Greg stood in the main room and faced each other. "You really think I'd do that, try to steal her from you?"

"I don't know what the hell you're gonna do. You just came out of the looney bin," Greg snapped. "But I recognize that tactic from the good old days, complimenting a woman just to get her to turn red and fall for all that boyish charm."

"You are so full of it!" Wilson ran a hand through his hair and looked distressed, but again Roz caught that flash of calculation under the emotion, and felt her temper begin to rise. "If you recall, you spent plenty of time in that looney bin yourself! Don't even make that some sort of species of reproach!"

"Excuse me," Roz said quietly.

"If the shoe fits," Greg said with a sneer in his voice. "You learned just enough to cover your tracks with even more sincerity than you did before."

"That's so not true! I'm—I'm doing my best—"

"Yeah you are, and you're doing it with my woman—"

"I'm not! I wouldn't—"

"Oh, don't even try that innocent injured bullshit with me—"

"Hey!" Roz yelled. Both men fell silent. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck; Greg shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked out the window. "I'm right here, you don't have to talk about me like I'm not in the room."

Greg turned his head to glare at her. His icy gaze raked her up and down. "You're filthy," he said in a tone of both disgust and condemnation.

It was as if he'd slapped her hard. Roz stood there for a moment, felt the breath leave her body before the hurt slammed into her full force. _He blames me for this,_ she thought in disbelief, _for what his friend, his so-called friend, is doing. And he doesn't give a shit about what I've done here._ Her anger hit high simmer headed for a rolling boil.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am," she said. "Thanks for pointing that out. If I'm such an embarrassment, guess I'd better leave. See you around." She turned on her heel and strode to the entrance, pushed her way past the screen door that always stuck when it was damp, and thundered down the steps.

It was a three mile walk home from the clinic. By the time she'd reached the house she beyond furious, anger, hurt pride and bewilderment mixed together. She couldn't bring herself to go inside and wait for Greg to come home, it was simply not possible. So she took her truck keys from the rack by the kitchen door, and headed off to Sarah and Gene's place. If Greg could go to Sarah for help, so could she.

Roz had just pulled into the Goldmans drive when her phone rang. She answered it without speaking.

"What the hell was that?" Greg demanded. "You go off in some snit because I said you were dirty?"

"That wasn't all of it," Roz said.

"Enlighten me." The cold sarcasm in the second slap didn't sting as much as the first one but hurt enough to push her fury up another couple of notches.

"_Fuck_ you," she said, and ended the call. She turned off her phone, parked the truck, and as she'd done at her own home, went around to the back. On a day like today Sarah would likely be at work outside.

She wasn't disappointed. Sarah was in the garden. She picked both green and red tomatoes as she knelt on a thick pad of newspapers. At Roz's approach she sat up. Her smile of welcome faded. "What happened?" she asked.

Roz stopped. To her surprise she felt her throat tighten. She just stood there, unable to speak. Sarah got to her feet and stripped off her gloves, dropped them on the newspaper, and came forward to put her arm around Roz's shoulders. "Come on," she said. "Let's go in and you can tell me."

It took a while to get the whole stupid and sorry story out, but Roz managed it. Sarah was quiet throughout the telling, head down as she listened. "I presume he's called you," she said when the narrative was ended.

"Yes. I turned off my phone," Roz said. She felt caught between righteous wrath and guilt.

"He's probably afraid you've really left," Sarah said quietly. "Ignoring him won't help matters."

Roz put her phone on the counter and stared at it. "Why does he do that?"

"Get nasty, you mean?" Sarah got up and went to the fridge. She took out a ginger beer and a pitcher of iced tea, snagged a clean glass from the cupboard and filled it with the tea. "He tends to push people away before they hurt him first. In this case, from what you told me I think he's angry with James for flirting with you, which is a bit like being mad at the tide for coming in." She set the glass of tea in front of Roz, moved the cookie tin next to it and sat down. "He's also afraid you'll do exactly what you just did—walk away." She popped the top on her ginger beer and took a long swallow.

"So I should have stayed there," Roz said. _No way,_ she thought. "I don't like Wilson—James," she amended, "messing with me. He's doing it on purpose, Sare."

"James is a skilled manipulator and he enjoys exercising his abilities," Sarah said. "I doubt very much that will ever change, no matter how much healing he manages to do. That doesn't mean you have to put up with it though. I wouldn't like it either."

"You think I should have stayed and called both him and Greg out on this?"

"Not necessarily," Sarah said. "Wilson and Greg were both out of line and I don't blame you for being angry. You've worked incredibly hard on upgrading and restoring the clinic, you should get acknowledgment for that."

"But it was a bad choice to leave," Roz said.

"It was what he expected." Sarah reached out and pushed the phone a little closer to her. "Turn it back on and answer him."

Roz sipped her tea. It was cold and slightly bitter, refreshing. She took a breath and checked her voicemail. One message from Greg waited. She opened it.

"Fine, throw a hissy fit over nothing. Guess I won't see you later. So much for 'I love you.'"

Roz closed her eyes. She could hear the anxiety behind the sharp edge and icy sardonic tone. She felt her heart swell with rage, as her need for justice warred with the necessity to deal with the situation before it got worse.

"He's pushing to see what you'll do," Sarah said. "Call him back and let him know where you are, that you want to talk, if that's the truth." She tilted her head a little. "Is it?" Roz didn't answer, unsure what to say. "Do you want to hang onto your mad or get this sorted out? You've got a good reason to be angry, but making yourself right won't resolve this."

"I'll . . . I'll call him back and let him know where I am," Roz said finally. "But I need to think about the other things for a while."

Sarah nodded. "That's honest, but he won't let you do that. There's going to be a fight, you might as well face it. You can crash here and have dinner with us after if you want."

"You—you think it'll take that long for him to get here?" Roz was surprised.

"No, I think it'll be more like five minutes. But you'll both need some downtime after you blow up at each other, so you might as well take a nap and eat a good meal before you go home for round four," Sarah said.

Roz sighed. Suddenly she felt incredibly weary. _Fuck it,_ she thought. _Let's get this over with._ "You're probably right," she said aloud. "Okay, fine. Here goes." She hit speed-dial.

Greg picked up on the first ring. "So what pearls of divine wisdom are you scattering before me now, oh dust-encrusted one?"

"I'm at Sarah's," Roz said. "If you want to talk, come over."

"Why the hell should I bother?"

"Just because I'm pissed off beyond belief doesn't mean I stopped loving you, you damn dumbass," Roz said, more sharply than she'd intended. "Stop making this either-or. If you want to talk, I'm here." She hung up, opened the cookie tin and took out a couple of walnut-honey cookies. They were fragrant and buttery, a little sticky, and her secret favorite of all the recipes Sarah made.

"Nicely done," Sarah said, and smiled a little. "He'll be here with Wilson in tow before you know it."

_We'll see,_ Roz thought, and licked her fingers as she polished off the first cookie.

She'd eaten a second cookie and nearly finished a third when Barbarella roared up the drive. Two car doors opened, slammed shut. Sarah got up and took her ginger beer. "Meet me in the living room," she said. Roz ate the last bite of cookie and stood as she dusted her hands.

_Here we go,_ she thought, and followed Sarah.


	26. Chapter 26

Sarah followed Roz into the living room. Greg and Jim—_James,_ she reminded herself, _he's James_—had just come in the front door. It was quite clear from their body language that the two men had had further words on the way over. Greg looked thunderous, brows lowered as he faced Roz with an icy glare that was equal parts anger and anxiety. Roz returned his look with one of her own, her features locked in a scowl Sarah hadn't seen for a very long time.

_Okay, where do I start?_ She did a quick triage. "You," she crooked her finger at James, "come with me. You two," she glanced at Roz and then Greg, "get to it. Don't waste your time sniping at each other or scoring points. Be honest and let the other person say what they have to say without interrupting. And sit down."

"I will if she will," Greg muttered.

"Sit _down_. Both of you," Sarah said with some acerbity. Slowly Roz lowered into the seat next to the couch. Greg settled into his favorite chair opposite hers. "Good. See you shortly." She resisted the urge to grab James by the ear as she led the way to the kitchen and out the back door to the garden. Once they reached her old windsor chair she waved a hand at it. "Sit."

James took the seat. He looked guilty, defiant and about ten years old. Sarah moved a vari-colored group of tomatoes to the side and sat on the newspaper pad she'd used to keep the dirt and mulch off her jeans. "So what's this all about?" she asked, and folded her arms around her knees.

"You mean you're not going to get out the ruler and smack my piddies?" James said finally. His words held considerable sarcasm, but he wouldn't look at her.

"I should get me a broom handle and blister your bottom good," she said in the same tart tone she'd used on Greg and Roz. "What did you think you were you doing, flirtin' around with Greg's wife?"

"I wasn't!"

"The _hell_ you weren't." Sarah glanced at the back door. "Maybe I should bring Nolan in on a conference call—"

"Okay okay okay!" James raised his hands. "Maybe I was just a little." He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture Sarah remembered from college. It was always a sure sign of real agitation. At this point she couldn't tell if it was guilt at being caught or anxiety over how to rationalize his actions; perhaps a bit of both. "I . . . I wanted to get some of my own back, I guess."

"What do you mean?" She had a pretty good idea of what came next, but knew he needed to tell her so they could proceed.

"Well . . ." He fidgeted when the sound of raised voices reached them faintly. "Shouldn't you . . .?"

"_No_," Sarah said. "You were saying?"

James sighed. "He broke up my first marriage. And my second, and my third."

"No, you did that all on your own," Sarah said.

"You weren't there, you don't know—"

"I know the other reason why I didn't marry you was because you were cheating on me," Sarah said. "It makes sense you'd continue the pattern later on." She caught the surprise in his expression. "Did you really think I didn't know?"

"You . . . you never said anything," James said finally.

"What was there to say? You proposed because you felt guilty, you wanted to make it up to me or something. But if you cheated once before we'd even signed a marriage contract, you'd do it after too. Couldn't live with that." She sent him a keen glance. "You have considerable trouble maintaining relationships."

"The only one who does, apparently," he shot back.

"I didn't say that. And it wasn't an accusation, more an observation of behavioral patterns." She paused. This was boggy territory they entered now, where one misstep could sink both parties in a morass of pointless recrimination. "You want your friendships and romances or flings to be on your terms, and your terms only. You're the caretaker for the needy other. Providing gives you the upper hand and allows you to control the relationship." She paused. "This is not news. Darryl's let you work this out on your own, I know he has."

"We've . . . discussed it."

_I'll just bet you have,_ Sarah thought. "So why did you deliberately fall back on an old pattern and hurt your best friend by aiming at his wife? She's not going to fall for you," she said aloud. "She's Greg's girl, one hundred per cent."

"We're not best friends," James said. There was an edge of anger in the statement that confirmed Sarah's suspicions.

"You really hate the fact that he's found what you thought you always wanted," she said quietly.

"What do you mean, what I _thought_ I always wanted? No, never mind. I don't want to get into that right now." James got to his feet, then sat down again because there was nowhere to pace except a muddy path. "I-I never believed he'd make it to fifty, let alone find a new life somewhere else and actually be successful at it."

"Greg's found a woman who loves and trusts him—"

James rolled his eyes. "Obviously. It's why she's in there fighting with him right now."

"You don't know Roz," Sarah said. "If she didn't trust him she would never have married him. She's got issues like anyone else and Greg pushed a big button of hers this morning. She feels inadequate when it comes to intelligence, among other things. As a consequence she doesn't want him to be ashamed of her."

James had the grace to look guilty at that statement. He said nothing however.

"Greg's married to a good woman, he lives in a community that's accepted him, and he's about to open his own practice. It's my opinion that it will be a successful one. There's already a stack of letters from people begging him to take on their cases and he's bored out of his mind without puzzles to solve, so even with his reservations about whether or not this is a good idea, it'll happen because ultimately he'll make it do so. At least I hope that's what he'll choose." Sarah paused. "When Greg was living in Princeton you had a friendship based on neediness. Now he's no longer reliant on you, so you don't know how to re-establish your relationship with him. Trying to force it back into a provider-dependent formula won't work. Use another approach."

"I don't think he wants to re-establish anything," James said. Sarah was about to answer him when Roz's voice interrupted them. She shouted full out, her words filled with fury and worse, a wild pain that told its own story.

"Dammit," Sarah said in exasperation. She got to her feet and headed into the house.

[H]

She's really mad. He knows her well enough by now to read the portents; the folded arms, the gimlet stare so reminiscent of her grandfather, the way she displays her shortened little finger without any realization she does it . . . all very bad signs, for him anyway. "I was making an observation," he says to start them off. "That's all. You were a mess from crawling around in the attic. I just pointed it out."

"You looked at me like I was week-old summertime roadkill." Her soft voice has a steely edge. "Like you were ashamed of me." She pauses. "So are you?"

"Stupid question," he snaps.

"No it isn't." Roz stares right at him and won't look away. "I get the feeling you are. And maybe it's more than that. Maybe you're not just jealous of your friend."

"Great. Now you're gonna psycho-analyze me. I already have a shrink," he groans, but there's something deep inside that tightens in dread at what she's going to say.

"You've never liked my working at the clinic. You pitched a hissy fit when I spent some of my extra time there—"

"All of it," he tosses in, annoyed at this edit of the facts.

"Some of it," she corrects. "And then today, you were pissed off because I went up to check on things and didn't stay with you." She smiles but it's just a slight stretch of the lips. "You're jealous of a damn building."

"Am not," he manages after a brief silence.

"_Sei un idiota!_" Her tone is ice-cold.

"Oh sure, resort to name-calling in another language so you come off all smart and superior." He rubs his thigh out of reflex, feels the pads of the TENS unit under his palm. "So as far as you're concerned, what happened is my fault. You didn't start any of this by getting red and giggly when Wilson used one of his well-practiced techniques on you. That's how it is. Got it."

Roz is silent so long he's not sure she plans to speak again. When she does, there's a subtle ache in her voice that makes him feel guilty, an emotion he loathes. "I was embarrassed because someone who is not my husband was saying things in a way that made me uncomfortable. If you really think I . . . I was flirting back . . ." She shakes her head and looks at the floor.

"What?" he says, voice raised in mock incredulity. "You're saying you didn't? _Au contraire_, I was there too!"

"_No!_" Roz lifts her head. Her green eyes blaze at him. "You saw what you wanted to see because you don't trust me! I've showed you in every way I can that I love _you_, I trust _you_! I don't know what else to do!" She draws in a breath and to his dismay and annoyance, he sees tears on her lashes. "You're the one who smacked me down and acted like I'd done something wrong, when all I did was walk away from someone who was pushing me to respond to him! My Poppi didn't bring me up to act that way—"

"But your mother did," he says before she can finish. The words fall right out of his mouth, he hears them with some astonishment; even as he says them he knows this is a huge mistake, much bigger than the one he made earlier this morning. Silence falls again.

"You're absolutely right, yes she did," Roz says finally. There's no emotion in her words now. "So that's what you really think of me, the same thing everyone else has been telling each other for years. I'm just a skank like my mother and a liar on top of it." She gets to her feet. "Kinda makes me wonder why you married me, but whatever."

Greg tries to find the words to stop this train wreck, but of course now his ability to bullshit has deserted him completely in his time of need. Typical.

"Guess that means I'm free to go to the bar and get drunk and find some man to flirt with, since I'm so good at it. He can take me home and fuck me blind too. Great. I hope it's Rick. He's always wanted to get into my pants. Now's his big chance." She picks up her keys and turns toward the door.

"Sit down," Greg snaps. He's shaking. She's about to leave and he can't stop her. "Don't be stupid. I'm just saying—"

Roz whips around to face him. "I heard what you had to say! I heard every damn word!" She shouts at him now, really yells at him, the first time he's ever heard her let go, and it's amazing how scared it makes him, because he's pushed her way too far and she won't come back, he knows it. "Now you listen to _me!_ I didn't flirt with anyone, I don't give a FUCK about the clinic except it's important to you, and the only thing you can do when I tell you that is call me a liar and a whore! So excuse the _fuck _out of me if I don't want to stick around and hear more of the same!" She swipes at her eyes and takes off toward the door. Her long legs eat up the distance in no time. When she slams out of the house it's like a rifle shot right next to his ear. Greg flinches even as Sarah comes into the room. Wilson trails behind her.

"What. The. _Hell?_" she says. Great, now _she's_ mad too.

"She's not coming back," he says.

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment. Then she turns to Wilson. "I hope you're proud of yourself," she says, and there is both sorrow and exasperation in her words.

"Do you want me to leave?" Wilson says it with defiance, but he fidgets like a cat on hot bricks.

"No, you stay put until this damn dog's dinner gets cooked up and served," Sarah says. "You find a seat and don't even think about sneakin' off, or you won't like it when I haul you back here and settle your hash." She turns her attention to Greg. "Come on. We're going to find your wife before she does something that will make things a lot worse for both of you."

"I'm not chasing after her," he says. Sarah stares at him.

"The hell you're not."

"She's the one who walked out! Fuck her if she can't take the truth!"

Those carroty curls take on a rusty glow he knows from experience means her internal temperature gauge now climbs at a precipitous rate. "Y'know, for someone who's supposed to be so goddamn freakin' smart, you are the biggest sure-'nough moon calf to walk God's green earth," she says finally. "I have met some fools in my day but son, you're buckin' for top rankin' and that ain't no compliment." She huffs an angry breath. "Get off that dumber-than-dirt ass and move it to the truck."

Greg makes one last attempt at independence. "No."

Sarah's eyes narrow to mean little slits. They are rifle-barrel grey, ice-cold and hold no compromise. "The correct answer is _Yes__,_" she growls.

"She, ah, she mentioned a broom handle earlier," Wilson says almost apologetically. "If I were you I'd do what she wants."

Sarah swings around to face Wilson. "Siddown and shut up!" she snaps. Wilson obeys with alacrity. "You," she jabs a finger at Greg, "truck. GIT."

Discretion is the better part of valor at this point. He goes with her.

The atmosphere in Minnie Lou is positively Arctic; it's a wonder there isn't thick frost on the windows. They drive in silence to the village, where they pull into a spot in front of the bar. Roz is there all right, her truck sits next to theirs. Sarah puts Minnie in park and stares at the neon signs in the front window of the bar. Music and the clack of pool balls drifts out of the open door. "She's playin' Jo Dee Messina. _Shit._" Sarah shakes her head and sighs. "You've made a good life for yourself here, you know you have," she says finally. "You're ready to fly. But you see that distance between the edge of the nest and the ground below, and you're afraid you'll fall and end up broken again. You might fail, yeah. That's always possible. But you won't know until you try."

"Based on previous experience I'd say the odds are good I do know," he says, and hears the familiar bitterness in his words.

"You know that old story about how bumblebees shouldn't be able to fly because they're not designed right? But they still do it because they don't have any expectation other than to just launch into thin air and take off."

"That is such bullshit," he says at last, struck by the metaphor and unwilling to let her see it.

She looks at him then, and there's a glimmer of affection along with the exasperation. "Get in there and talk to your woman. Tell her you were scared and jealous and not thinkin' straight, because you know that's true. You've got a chance to get her back, but you need to do some serious groveling, so you better hop to it." She is stone cold serious. "Let's go."

"You're coming with?" He isn't sure if he's relieved or pissed off.

"Damn straight I am. Both of you have shown you can't talk to each other without supervision. I won't interfere unless I need to knock your stubborn heads together." Her tone softens a tiny fraction. "Fool-hearted man. Come on, let's get to it. The night ain't gettin' any younger and she's not gettin' any happier."

They emerge from the truck, and Sarah takes the lead. Greg follows. He stops at the door, peers into the dim interior. Roz is at the pool table. A Yuengling longneck and a bottle of whiskey sit on the bar next to her as she works out her next shot. He takes a breath, steps over the threshold and into round three.


	27. Chapter 27

Before Greg goes in he sends a text message: _Roz needs you NOW Kelly's _Then he moves to the doorway. Roz sets up her shot, takes it and straightens, then pauses to down a long swallow of beer. There's an empty tumbler next to a bottle of whiskey which sits beside the beer. She glances at him, pours out a finger and downs it fast. Then she turns her back on Greg.

"I'd like a Woodchuck please," he hears Sarah say to the bartender before she heads over to the cue rack and chooses a stick. "Mind if I join you?" This question is directed at Roz, who doesn't bother to look around.

"It's a one-person game."

Sarah pauses as she chalks her cue. "Since when?" She walks over and takes the bottle of hard cider the bartender offers her. The guy glances at Greg, who shakes his head. He's still under prohibition for a while yet, and the muscle regrowth is the only thing going right for him at the moment, so he's not about to screw that up too.

"You're not here to play. You're gonna try to convince me to go back to that _stolto. _Not interested." There's still no emotion in Roz's voice; she sounds cool, logical, disengaged. But he knows better. She's bleeding to death inside, and it's his fault.

"That's your choice to make, not mine." Sarah takes a sip, studies the layout of the table. "But I think it would be a better idea to talk about things at my place."

"Nothing to talk about." It was more than obvious Roz doesn't care if the whole damn village eavesdrops; gossip probably already flies over the phone and wi-fi about Marina's kid at the bar at noon on a Sunday afternoon, but this public argument will add more fuel to the fire.

"I think Greg would disagree," Sarah says softly.

"Greg can shove his head up his ass. Oh wait, it's already there." Roz lines up her shot, takes her time. Alcohol always messes with her ability to do math. He remembers teasing her about it. The pain that memory causes surprises him. To push it away he speaks aloud.

"You'll screw it up if you go in at that angle."

Roz deliberately takes the shot. The balls scatter and don't hit a single pocket. "Wow, what do you know, the genius is right again," she says, and slugs her beer. "But then what can you expect from some dirty blue-collar grunt, right? Shit for brains and all that."

"Stop it." Greg moves closer now, his voice sharp. He notes with interest it sounds a lot like fear. "You're not a dumb grunt and you're not dirty."

"Oh yeah, right. My mistake. The correct term is 'filthy'." She finishes off the beer and sets the dead soldier on the bar. "_Filthy_ . . ." She draws it out, lingers on the dipthong. "What a great word. I'm gonna use it every day."

"Roz," Sarah says quietly. "This will not help."

"Another beer," Roz says to the bartender. The man glances at Sarah. "_Hey!_ She's not my mom! I said another beer!"

"_Bambina,_" Poppi says from the doorway, and Greg feels his the knot in his gut relax just a fraction. If anyone can save the day, it's a Roz's-grandfather-and-Sarah-tag-team. "Rosamundi, what are you doing?"

Roz freezes. She turns a slow glare on Sarah. "You bitch."

Sarah shakes her head. "I didn't call him."

"Your husband called me," Lou says. He goes over to the bar, picks up the beer and the bottle of whiskey and hands them to the bartender. "She won't be needing these."

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions!" Roz says loudly. She slaps the cue stick down on the table and faces her grandfather, arms folded.

"This is your mother's way of dealing with problems," Lou says. His dark eyes hold sadness. "Nana and I raised you better than this."

"Well according to my husband that's not true, so what difference does it make what I do?" Greg sees her pain as it threatens to break free, and sees also she's frightened of what will happen if she can't control it. "I guess everyone here was right about me all along, so why disappoint them?"

"I don't think everyone's right about you," Greg says quietly but unable to hide his impatience. Roz ignores him—about what he expects from her at the moment.

"Come with me," Sarah says. "Getting drunk won't help, sis. It'll just make things worse."

"_Bambina_, go with her," Lou says. "I'm coming too."

"No," Roz says. "No, I don't think so. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here." She must feel Sarah move closer because she tenses up, shoulders stiff. "_Don't_. I mean it. Don't start."

Sarah puts a hand on her shoulder anyway, and keeps it there even when Roz tries to pull free. "Please," she says softly. There's a long moment of standoff. Finally, on a growl of exasperation Roz digs in her pocket, throws a wad of bills on the bar and stalks out. She brushes past Greg as if he's a post. Of course Sarah makes sure the amount covers the tab and has a short, quiet conversation with the bartender before they leave. It's entirely possible the guy won't talk about this to the next customers who come in; Sarah can charm the birds out of the trees when she puts her mind to it, a talent she shares with Wilson, though it's put to a different use.

They all arrive at home more or less at the same time. Everyone piles into the living room, finds a seat. Greg comes in with reluctance and takes his easy chair but he sits on the edge, grips his cane and waits. Roz sits as far from him as possible. She doesn't look away but she doesn't acknowledge his presence either. Wilson is nowhere in sight; his car is still parked on the side of the drive though, so he hasn't high-tailed it back to Princeton. So therapy apparently works for him to some extent, though not enough to keep him out of trouble.

"Lou and I are here to make sure no one leaves before this fight is settled," Sarah says. That's such absolute pie in the sky malarkey Greg has no words, but he doesn't run this mess anyway so there's no reason to object. "Start talking."

"What's the point?" Roz says. "Nothing left to say." She looks directly at him then. "Is there?"

This is the make or break moment. The only thing he can go with is honesty, however it falls out. "I don't think you're a whore."

"Good to know." Roz's expression can best be described as inimical. "What _do_ you think I am then? Just curious, because the only thing I really know about you is that you don't trust me."

"I don't trust anyone," he snaps, annoyed by this narrow focus on one issue.

"Bullshit," she comes right back at him. "You trust Sarah and you were starting to trust me too, so what the hell happened?"

"Having sex in every room in the house and watching tv together without fighting over the remote doesn't equal trust." Weak, totally weak, but he's off his game.

"I see." Roz sits back, arms folded. "That line about how I'll never know what it's like to love and not be loved back, guess that was a lie—"

"No!" He thumps the cane on the floor, and tries to find a way out of this mess. "I meant what I said at the time—"

"And now you don't?"

"_No,_" he says, exasperated. "I mean _yes_, I—shit, I don't know what I mean!" His hands shake; he's about to fuck this up the way he always does.

"Slow down," Sarah says. "Everybody take a breath and relax." She tucks a curl behind her ear and glances at Greg. Her sea-grey eyes are somber, but she's not mad at him. His death grip on his cane loosens a little. "Pushing each other into corners won't help."

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," Greg says to Roz after silence falls. "When Wilson started flirting . . ." He stares at the floor.

"You didn't trust me not to flirt back." The pain in her words strikes at him. "You think I'd do something so terrible? Tell you I love you, then mess with someone else? How can you think that?" He can barely hear her. "I saw the things my mother did, the way she destroyed every feeling anyone ever had for her because she'd make promises she never had any intention of keeping. Well, I'm not built that way." She's got tears in her eyes now, but she won't let them fall. "If everything we've said and done since we became lovers is worthless because of five minutes of stupidity on someone else's part and your inability to get over the way another woman hurt you, then I really don't know you at all."

"Why'd you take off?" he demands. "You acted like you had no idea what to do—"

"I _didn't!_" It is a cry of pure desperation. "He's your friend, I didn't want to tell him off in front of you and cause a scene! How fucking hard is that to understand?"

"Since when have you cared about raising hell?" he says, skeptical of this disclaimer.

"I take it back, he's not a genius. Can you explain things to this _testa di cazzo _before I rip his head off?" Roz throws a glare at Sarah and wipes her eyes, little quick angry dabs, as if she's embarrassed to be seen doing it.

"Rosa," Lou says. To Greg's astonishment he's actually smiling a little.

"_Non mi rompere le palle,_" Greg shoots back.

"There is one person in the room who doesn't speak Italian beyond what's on a menu and _porca miseria_," Sarah says dryly. "Can we use English please?"

"He's asking me not to bust his balls," Roz says. "If he had any to start with we wouldn't be here."

"Insults reflect on the insulter, so there," Greg says, and watches his wife's eyes fire with the light of battle. The words of a song come to him then: _just to see you smile/I'd do anything that you wanted me to . . . _It's crazy as hell to have that stupid mawkish tune come up when the woman he loves is about to rip into him, but there it is, the truth of the matter laid out in simple words, and he'd better do something about it right damn quick, as his shrink would say. "I'm sorry," he says aloud.

At any other time it would be funny to see the other three people in the room fall silent in outright shock, but right now he wants them, and particularly Roz, to take him at his word. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

"For what?" Roz says finally.

"For all of it." Greg looks at the floor. It's not a lie, he means it. He knows the choice that stands before him, the same one he's always faced: fly, or crash and burn. The wreckage of his previous attempts is scattered through his history, from kindergarten on up to the present day. He's been told and had it proven time and again he's a fuckup, someone who can't handle real joy or happiness in any form. If he wanted to he could see this as further evidence to support that theory and act accordingly. But he won't, because his work with Sarah has offered a different hypothesis . . . maybe, just maybe, he isn't doomed to repeat that history today. Tomorrow could be a different story, but right now . . .

"You're just telling me that to get out of a fight," Roz says.

"Well yeah," he says. "But it's still true. Might as well cut to the chase."

She looks at him a long time, a considering stare, as she weighs things in her mind. She's still mad and deeply hurt, that's clear. It will take time for her to simmer down. "Thank you," she says at last.

"No problem," he lies.

"This doesn't make everything right between us."

"One step at a time," Sarah says, and now Greg can see she's exhausted; the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks by the summer sun stand out sharply against her pale skin. "You can stay here if you want tonight."

"No, we're going home," Roz says before Greg can refuse the offer. She doesn't say anything more, but that settles that.

Their little party breaks up now. Roz and Lou exchange a few words and a long, gentle hug. Sarah comes over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. She doesn't say anything, for which Greg is grateful. Undoubtedly they'll talk about this in great length later, but for now her quiet support is all he can handle.

An hour or so after they've arrived home, Roz comes into the living room where he watches the game. "Supper's ready," she says quietly. He was surprised she'd decided to cook, but if she wants to work off her anger with a meal he's not going to complain. He will check the counters for boxes of rat poison first though.

It's a simple dinner: chicken with a mashed potato dish on the side, filled with sautéed spinach and feta cheese, and some green beans. He fills his plate and sits at the table across from her, and reaches out to take her hand as she's about to pick up her fork.

"I meant it," he says. Her hand lies cool and unresisting in his clasp.

"This time," she says, and the bitterness makes him flinch.

"You're right, this kind of thing will happen again because I'm a hopeless jerk who turns every relationship into a train wreck," he says. "But that doesn't preclude my feeling bad because I hurt you by being stupid."

She's silent a long time. "That makes no sense."

He smiles just a little. "Yeah, I know." His thumb caresses her palm. "Don't think about it, it'll make your head ache."

"Too late." She stares down at their hands. "I'm not my mother," she says quietly.

"No, you're not. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman who deserves someone far better than me to give you every good thing," he says, and something, a little catch in his voice or an inflection of some sort, takes her attention because she lifts her face to his. Her eyes are steady, direct; they're hazel-green, like sunlight on leaves.

"Eat your dinner before it gets cold," is all she says, though he knows she was about to say something very different. He obliges her and picks up his fork, but he doesn't let go of her hand, and she doesn't pull away. The rest of the mean is conducted in silence, but it's not hostile at least. He'll take what he can get and work on the rest as time goes on. With a great deal of outside help disaster has been averted, at least for the moment, and he wants to keep it that way.

[H]

Sarah took the bottle of Glenlivet from the cupboard along with a shot glass. She carried them into the dining room and sat at the table, opened the bottle and poured out a healthy two fingers of whiskey. She picked up the glass, held it to the light for a moment.

"Sweet tapdancin' Jesus," she said, and exhaled a long breath. Then she took a substantial sip, savored the smoky fire. When it was gone she poured out another shot, tipped her chair back and listened to the music from the kitchen radio.

"Mind if I join you?" Gene slid into the seat next to hers. Sarah sat motionless for a moment in delighted surprise before she leaned in and kissed him, a lingering salute neither of them hurried.

"You're back early," she said when they came up for air. "Everything's okay?"

"Just fine. Feels like maybe it's a good thing I got here when I did," he said. His dark eyes held worry and affection in equal measure. "What the hell's goin' on? Our house guest is out in the garden perched on your chair like he's waitin' for you to cut him a willow switch."

Sarah sighed and wiped a curl off her forehead. "Lord, what a mess. If I didn't have any grey hairs before this I sure do now."

She told him what had gone down, and kept it simple. At the end Gene leaned back in the chair and took her hand. He brought it to his lips. "You do good work," he said.

"I just herded a buncha cats into a room," she said wryly.

"Do you think before you started sessions with Greg back in Mayfield that he'd have been capable of apologizing for what happened? Or that he'd even try to repair the damage he'd done?" Gene shook his head. "No way. It's down to your help, Sare."

She broke free gently of his hold and touched his cheek with her fingers. He exhaled a long breath and slipped his arm around her waist, brought her close.

"I don't feel like cookin' tonight," Sarah said after a while. "Let's get a pizza and make out on the couch."

"We have company," Gene reminded her.

"Dammit. Guess I'd better call Darryl and get this session over with too." She closed her eyes at the thought of the next hour or two. "Rain check?"

"Hold that thought for tomorrow night when you get home from work. I'll make you some cornbread with beans on the bottom for supper right now," Gene said. "We'll put this sippin' liquor away and share a couple of beers, what do you say?"

"I say that's a fair proposition, tall dark and handsome man," Sarah said. She offered a smile and received a kiss in return. "What did you ever see in me anyway, when we first met?"

"Well, guess I just have to agree with the song they're playin' on the radio," Gene said, a gleam of mischief in his eye. "'She's got her daddy's money/her momma's good looks/more laughs than a stack of comic books'—"

"Oh my god," Sarah said, and hated the blush she felt start, "you're so full of it."

"'A wild imagination/a college education/add it all up, it's a deadly combination'—"

"Will you stop!" She couldn't hide the laugh at his teasing.

"'She's a good bass fisher/a dynamite kisser/and country as a turnip green' . . ." He tugged suggestively on a curl.

Sarah stole a kiss. "Hold that thought," she said, and laughed again when he groaned. "There's a can of pinto beans in the cupboard. Get busy, honey."

"Yes ma'am." He bussed her on the forehead and stood. "'Look who's lookin' at me'," he said with smug pride, and gave an exaggerated jump when she pinched his cheek. "Hey! That's harassment!"

"It'll be a lot more than that if you keep shakin' that gorgeous tight ass in my face," Sarah said, grinning. "Make sure you use buttermilk and no salt."

"On my ass?" Gene inquired, all innocence. Sarah swatted at him.

"Commence cookin', you jamook!"

"Ma'am yes ma'am!" Gene saluted her, collected the whiskey bottle and went into the kitchen. Sarah sat back, well aware she was being managed. She didn't mind in the least. She polished off the last of the Glenlivet and felt the tension she'd carried all day slowly leave her. _I hope Greg learns to feel like this when Roz does the same thing for him,_ she thought, and sent a positive thought her foster son's way before she got up and went outside to collect the next errant child.


	28. Chapter 28

"No, it's all right. I'm good to stay late," Nolan said. His voice sounded clear despite the static on the line and the distortion of the speaker. "So what happened?"

James glanced at the closed office door. "Are you sure Sarah shouldn't be in here?"

"If you want her, you can ask her to come in. But I think you'll do better to wait until you tell me what went down this morning." Nolan sounded the same as always—curious, encouraging, unflappable. James took a breath.

"Yeah—yeah, okay. So I won't edit or try to—to people-please."

"Yes. Just tell it."

"Well . . . I . . . I screwed up." James looked down at his hands. "I, um . . . I messed with House. Indirectly," he hastened to add.

"Okay. How did you do that?"

"I . . ." James sighed. "I flirted with Roz. His wife."

"I see. And how did they handle it? House and Roz, I mean." Nolan sounded reassuring, but James felt the back of his neck tense up. He rubbed it and wished he'd gone home when the opportunity had presented itself several hours ago.

"She, ah, she left."

"Left?" It was a mild inquiry, but James's nervousness increased.

"She—she started to blush and then she went somewhere—the attic, I think. Checking wiring or something."

"Got it. And House? What did he do?"

James cleared his throat. "He, ah . . . he wasn't too pleased with me."

"How so?" Nolan didn't seem surprised.

"He—he accused me of trying to steal his wife. As if," James snorted.

"You don't find her attractive?"

"She's a little on the thin side," James said. _More like bony,_ he thought. Her features were too angular as well. _Beautiful eyes though. They're her best feature, with that black hair. _

"And yet you flirted with her." Nolan sounded puzzled.

"I . . . I did it to—like I said. Messing with House." James didn't feel better when he said it; he felt like even more of an idiot than usual.

"Why?"

He'd thought about that answer as he sat in Sarah's garden amid the dead vines and last flowers of summer. "Part of it was just habit—we always pranked each other. He dosed me with speed once after I slipped him some anti-depressants," James smiled a little at the memory. Nolan was silent. "Um—anyway, the other part . . . I . . . I'm jealous. And maybe I wanted to see how good things really are for House. This could all be a big pretense. I know that's not rational, but . . ." He shrugged.

"So you think House might be pulling a fast one." Nolan made it a statement instead of a question.

"I wouldn't put it past him. He held Chase's bachelor party in my apartment, complete with strippers, poles and flaming vodka tower."

"Mmm, so he told me." Nolan paused. "If he is trying to fake you out it's definitely a long and very complicated con. The odds for that are not favorable."

"I know . . . I do know, well, part of me knows anyway, that he's not really doing that—it's—it's just—" James sighed. "It's my paranoia around him. Half the time I never know whether to take him seriously or not."

"He does have an impressive set of skills when it comes to keeping people off-balance," Nolan said. "Did you achieve your goal with him?"

"Goal?"

"You wanted to mess with him. Was his getting angry what you were aiming for?"

"I . . . no, not really." James rubbed his neck. "I just wanted to see . . . someone I recognized."

"You find House unrecognizable?"

"Yes!" James sat up. "He's . . . he's acting like he's _happy_."

"Many people would find that a good thing," Nolan said mildly.

"I _know_ House. He doesn't do happy, not like this."

"I see." Nolan exhaled, a long, slow breath. "Would you be ready to have Sarah come in now?"

She entered quietly, put a hand on his shoulder for a moment before she sat down. The gesture felt good. "Darryl," she said, "I'm here."

"Sarah," Nolan said, and there was affection in his voice. "I hear it's been a long day on your end."

"Yes," she said, and James saw then she was tired. She glanced at him and smiled just a little, and somehow the weariness lifted for a moment. "We're holding on though."

"Good to know. Let's see if we can get things sorted out so you can have the evening off at least." Nolan was silent a moment. "I'd like your take on what happened."

"Okay. My information's second-hand, as I wasn't there to witness anything except Greg and Roz talking this afternoon."

She told the story from her point of view. It was dispassionate and factual, and it made James squirm. His behavior seemed worse than ever when stated in such a simple way.

"I'd like to make an observation," Nolan said when she was done.

"Please do," Sarah said.

"I think you've got your money on the wrong horse."

Sarah raised a brow. "Meaning . . .?"

"While James pulled a dumb stunt—"

"Thanks," James said under his breath.

"—he was merely the catalyst for what happened next."

Sarah thought about it. "The pin on a grenade," she said finally. "If you don't mind me mixin' my metaphors."

"Something like that, yes."

"So you believe this would have happened eventually?"

"Sooner or later. It just happened to be sooner."

"So it's a gift." Incredibly, Sarah smiled. Nolan chuckled.

"Trust you to use my words against me. It's an opportunity to deal with some messy issues on both sides and offer the chance to heal, at any rate."

"I've been assigning full responsibility to the wrong person," Sarah said, and closed her eyes. "Dammit."

"You've had a lot on your plate, Sare. It was certainly an easy mistake to make, with James offering such a visible action to latch onto."

"Thanks so much," James said dryly.

Sarah tucked a curl behind her ear. "Okay, understood. I'll talk with Greg tomorrow. He's already gone home with his wife."

"I think that's a good sign," Nolan said. "So let's continue with James, shall we?"

"Sounds good to me," Sarah said. James swallowed.

"Don't I get a vote?" he said, a feeble attempt at humor.

"You lost it when you decided to act like an idiot," Sarah said. "I might have been wrong about who created this mess, but that doesn't mean we won't work on why you did what you did." She leaned back. "Now let's go through this again . . ."

[H]

_September 5th_

Roz lay on her side and stared into the darkness. She'd been awake on and off since she'd gone to bed four hours ago, but now she'd been pulled out of some vivid dream by her husband's movements. She knew that he was up, that he struggled to deal with the need to move caused by his thigh muscle, as well as exhaustion from the day's events. He needed help, and she was the only one available to offer some.

Part of her wanted to let him suffer; he'd caused her pain, so why shouldn't he hurt too? But another part of her knew he'd endured more misery than most people could even imagine, and that included little or no help while he was in what amounted to agony. She would not be another person in the long line of those who had contributed to his distress and despair.

So she pushed the covers aside and sat up, got out of bed and walked around to his side. He was hunched over and rubbed his thigh as his leg bounced up and down in a rapid bounce. She turned on the table lamp and sat next to him. "How bad is it?" she asked quietly.

"Bad enough." His voice was tight.

"Pain or just restless leg?"

"Restless. Pain's a two."

Roz stood and went into the bathroom. She brought back a glass of water. "Do you want me to call Gene?"

Greg shook his head. "Need some Lyrica and a Vistaril," he said. She saw then his hands shook and he breathed fast and shallow. _Anxiety attack, _she thought, and took the meds he requested from the drawer. She shook out the pills and offered them to him, held the glass so he could drink, though she knew he was perfectly capable of it himself. When she put the water on the nightstand he started to reach for her, stopped. "Don't . . . don't go," he said, his voice low and rough.

"I'm right here," she said.

"No, I mean . . . don't . . . leave." He shuddered. "Please."

It was the perfect opportunity to hurt him as deeply as he had her. Roz knew even as she thought it that she wouldn't do it, couldn't. "I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't say anything for a long time. At last he managed a nod. "'kay."

"Do you need to walk?"

They ended up on a stroll around the block. It was a chilly night; the wind blew the first fallen leaves over the sidewalk and up against their legs. Greg didn't speak, but his hand gripped hers tightly.

When they were back in bed once more, Roz said quietly, "I might be mad as hell at you right now, but I won't walk out. You have my word."

Greg exhaled slowly. "Thank you," he said.

"How's the restlessness and anxiety?"

"Manageable."

Roz brought the covers up a little higher. "Okay. If you need help, wake me."

"Rubbing it in?" His words held bitterness.

"Trying to help," she said. After a moment his hand touched hers. She clasped his fingers. "Go to sleep."

She lay there for a long time, and listened to his breathing deepen and slow, as tears fell one by one to leave cold, salty trails on her skin.


	29. Chapter 29

_September 18th_

Greg wakes slowly to grey morning light. He rolls on his back and puts his arm over his eyes as consciousness seeps in, whether he wants it to or not. With his free hand he checks the other side of the bed. It's empty, which means Roz is in the kitchen to make breakfast. He hates the little jolt of fear that stabs at him when he finds her gone; she gave her word, but other people have done the same and left him anyway.

After a time he throws off the covers and slowly sits up. He gives himself a few minutes to get used to wakefulness. His hand rubs his right thigh, a habit that's never left him. The restlessness has grown stronger, and now and then he gets what Eric described as 'shooting pains', some kind of neural regrowth stimulation, more than likely. The sensation is sharp but not in a bad way, not a spasm or cramp, just that odd feeling of something on the mend . . . His hand rests over the gully of his scar. It's not so deep now, maybe raised up half an inch or so. He's had to put a soft gauze pad over it because the ridges have begun to rub against his jeans, and he doesn't want to risk an infection. Eventually he'll probably need some kind of cosmetic repair or skin graft, but the thought of another surgery on his thigh after the muscle's grown in frightens him. He doesn't want to risk the loss of what he's gained.

Finally he pushes away that line of thought. A shower would feel good, since he aches all over. This damp rainy weather hasn't helped with pain levels. Even Roz has favored her burned arm a bit.

He stays in the hot water a while, and wishes Roz was with him so he could soap up her slender curves and hear her sigh, her thick dark hair sleeked with water. At last he has to get out or risk turning into more of an aging, crippled prune than he already is. He towels off and puts on a tee shirt, sweats and his old bathrobe, the one his wife has threatened to replace several times now. It's in shreds, yeah—holes under the arms and a rip in the hem and the sleeves are worn and frayed, but it's still comfortable and he doesn't want some fluffy terrycloth monstrosity that'll make him look like one of Wilson's girlfriends. Flannel rests lightly on his skin, it keeps him warm, and he has a fondness for ugly plaid.

Slowly he limps into the living room, smells fresh coffee as his stomach growls. He goes to the doorway and peers into the kitchen. Roz has her back to him as she takes something out of the freezer. Hellboy sits on one of the chairs at the table and washes his paw. He sees Greg and jumps down, comes over to say hello. Greg stoops to give the cat a twiddle of the ears in reciprocal greeting. When he straightens Roz stands at the counter and pours batter into the waffle iron. It has raspberries in it. Greg stands there for a moment and watches her. Then he moves forward, passes the coffeemaker where a mug waits for him beside the sugar and creamer, and goes over to the slow cooker. Sure enough, there's what appears to be a batch of soup, just begun to simmer. It's _ribollita_, which makes sense. Because she's a practical and thrifty cook as well as a good one, Roz will split the two pounds of turkey sausage she bought yesterday at the market. They'll have some for breakfast as well as for tomorrow night's supper. He doesn't care if she doesn't use pork, even though he knows she does it for his health; as long as it tastes good, it doesn't matter to him.

He lifts the lid, though he knows it will earn him a rebuke, and breathes in the fragrance of browned smoked sausage, garlic, basil, rosemary and oregano, and the faint hint of Parmesan from the heel of cheese at the bottom of the pot.

"You keep doing that, it won't get done till midnight," Roz says, but she's not upset, he can tell. In fact he thinks maybe she secretly likes this little ritual; he does, though he'd never admit it. He replaces the lid and ambles over to the stove to stand beside her. He lifts the corner of a waffle.

"Looks good," he says. "Smells even better."

"I stopped by the house yesterday. Sare gave me the last of this year's raspberry crop, and some jam too." So Sarah and Gene's place has become a second home for her as well, which tells him she's worked quite a bit with the resident shrink about what went down a couple of weeks ago. He's done the same. Things are better between the two of them, but there's still a barrier of reserve on her side. He doesn't blame her, it's amazing that she even talks to him; anyone else would have been long gone at this point. But he wants back what they had, the intimacy he destroyed with his idiocy.

Without further comment he moves back to the coffee and pours a mugful, adds in a copious amount of sugar and a hit of cream, and heads to the living room and the piano. Normally he doesn't like to play in front of anyone else, but lately he's tried his luck to see if music will add some weight to his attempt to court his wife.

He sits down, adjusts the seat and plays a trial scale or two, warms his fingers. Then he summons up a tune and starts to play, nothing special. About thirty seconds in he senses something in his right thigh as he uses the sustain pedal—a fluttering sensation, rhythmic, light but definitely there, and nothing he's felt before, or at least not in a very long time. He stutters to a halt, not quite able to believe what's happened. His hand moves down, touches the scar through the fleece and the gauze pad. Then he swallows hard and pumps the pedal. The fluttering comes back, moves in time with his foot as it lifts and falls. The realization reverberates through him like the shock wave of a hard slap. He knows beyond all doubt now it is the contraction of new muscle.

"What is it?" Roz stands in the doorway as she wipes her hands on her apron. When she sees he's holding his thigh, she hurries over and sits beside him. "Are you all right?" she asks, and there is worry in her quiet voice. For answer he takes her hand and places it on the scarred area, moves his foot up and down. After a moment Roz's eyes brighten. Her hand caresses him gently before she leans in and kisses him on the cheek, and this time there is no invisible wall between them. Greg lets out his breath, surprised that he's held it all this time.

"I'm so glad," she says softly, "so glad, _amante_," and his heart gives a little skip at the familiar endearment that he hasn't heard in days. When her arm slips around his waist, he savors the feel of her closeness, along with the giddy triumph of this new step forward in both respects. He gives her a tender little buss on the lips, riffles through his mental store of music, and settles on something appropriate.

_grab your coat and get your hat_

_leave your worries on the doorstep_

_just direct your feet _

_to the sunny side of the street_

"Nana always used to sing this," Roz says. She rests her cheek against his shoulder. "Poppi loved it. I didn't think you knew it though."

So he hams it up a little, throws in some riffs here and there, his right foot steady on the sustain pedal, and the new muscle contracts and releases, all the way through to the end.

_I used to walk in the shade with my blues on parade_

_now I'm not afraid, this rover's crossed over_

_if I never had a cent_

_I'd be rich as Rockefeller_

_gold dust at my feet _

_on the sunny side of the street_

When the song is over they kiss, lingering, sweet, urgent.

"Breakfast can wait. Let's take a test drive," Roz whispers against his lips. It's the best thing he's heard in days. Greg closes his eyes, nods once, wills himself not to shake. She takes his hand and they rise to move to the bedroom.

An hour later they reheat everything and it tastes pretty good, though Greg would have eaten it cold and been content to do so. Both he and Roz are cloud-high with afterglow and pure, unreasoning delight; their experiment was a complete success. He's not so foolish as to believe everything's solved on the basis of this one moment in time, but having his woman sitting across from him, a hint of warm laughter in her eyes, her hand touching his, is one among several and yet by no means the least victory he's won this day.

[H]

Sarah had just picked the last of the dill for one final batch of hot garlic pickles when she heard the phone ring in the house. On a sigh she rose, groaned as her legs protested, and made her way to the back door.

She'd just stripped off her gloves when Gene came into the mudroom and handed her the cordless. "Who is it?" she mouthed. He shrugged and left, with a stop along the way to get a beer out of the fridge. Sarah frowned and put the receiver to her ear. "Hello, this is Sarah," she said.

"Doctor Goldman." It took her a moment to place the voice.

"Captain McMurphy. This is . . . unexpected." Sarah winced. "I mean, it's great to hear from you."

"That's good to know, because I'm standing in your town square totally lost." There was a laugh in the older woman's voice. "How do I get to your place?"

"Oh—ah, that's wonderful!" Sarah gave a little hop of excitement. "Not that you're lost, that you're here. Tell you what, it's easier for me to come to you. Give me five minutes. Here's my cell phone number . . ."

Sarah found McMurphy in the village square. She leaned against the hood of an older SUV. Sarah pulled Minnie Lou in next to it, put the truck in park and hopped out. "Captain," she said, hand extended.

"Might as well just call me McMurphy, everyone else does."

"What would you prefer?" Sarah asked. McMurphy gave her an appraising look, a glint of humor in her dark eyes.

"McMurphy's fine. If you call me Colleen I'll think I'm back home for sure." She looked around the square. "Kansas isn't all that much different from this."

"Ahah, country girl." Sarah smiled. "Me too. Oklahoma, in my case."

"I never would have guessed from that accent." They both laughed a little.

"So let me give you the official tour," Sarah said. She faced the post office and turned as she named off the businesses. "Mail, barber, grocery and feed store, pharmacy, Lou's pizza, laundry and dry cleaning, bar, auction house." She laughed. "You've just toured downtown. How about I take you to the clinic and then you can follow me back to our place and get settled in? You've made a hell of a long drive."

They were halfway to their destination when Sarah asked "How long do you plan to stay? You're more than welcome to kip with us, we've got plenty of room."

"Thanks. Just overnight, I have to go back tomorrow." McMurphy looked out the window at the passing scenery. "What brought you here?"

"My husband and I were looking for a place to retire. Through various twists and turns we decided to sell our place in New Jersey and live here year round."

"You both still have active practices?"

"Gene does. Mine's . . . well, not exactly on hiatus," Sarah said. "But close enough to call it good."

"You're working with Doctor House," McMurphy said, and gave Sarah a direct look. "You don't have to confirm or deny that, it's just an observation."

"Ask him yourself," Sarah said with a smile.

"He'll tell me to fuck off."

"You might be surprised." Sarah fought amusement. McMurphy and Greg were more alike in some ways than they knew.

"Do you have any idea how completely insane this looks from my point of view? If I come down here to take this job—and I'm not saying I will—is it worth all the upheaval and more damn cold winters to do it?" McMurphy sighed softly. "Of course you couldn't live in Tuscon or Palm Springs."

Sarah chuckled. "Why don't we check out the clinic before I answer that question."

She had the spare key with her, and a flashlight in case the power was still off. The lights came on however, to reveal an interior under renovation. McMurphy did a slow turn as she took in the fresh drywall and new plaster, the tarps on the floor. "How long until it's up and running?" she asked.

"This part's almost done. We're working on equipment and setting up an in-house lab, since it's not practical to send things out in cold weather when the roads might be impassable." Sarah sat down on a sawhorse. "We have an arrangement with the local medical center to trade basic services if and when necessary."

"From what I read about Doctor House's practice in Princeton, he only works with one patient at a time," McMurphy said. "All this for one person?"

Sarah sensed a test. "He takes on patients who've gone through every other channel," she said. "With the amount of detail and focus each case requires, it's not practical for him to take on more than one patient."

"I noticed he has a certain lack of social skills. That might have something to do with it too," McMurphy said, her tone dry. Sarah tilted her head.

"True, but don't let that lead you to believe he's incapable of compassion or understanding." She looked at the floor. "He feels very deeply. He's just good at hiding it."

McMurphy perched on a ladder and folded her arms. "So why exactly do you want me to work here? I'm presuming you have a pool of potential employees available locally."

"Yes, and if you decide not to take the job I'll go through that pool and all the resumes stacked up by my computer as well," Sarah said, and flinched at the thought. "I think you've got what it takes to work with Greg. His methods are unorthodox, to say the least. He needs someone who can handle the way he performs a differential diagnosis without either freaking out or agreeing with everything he says."

"'Unorthodox', that's one way to put it. He's certifiable," McMurphy said flatly. "I did some research. He's been censured for endangering patients lives, destroying hospital property, alienating fellow doctors . . . He was kicked out of med school twice."

Sarah nodded. "All true."

"And you want me to come up here and run this man's office? I'd end up killing him before the first day was over."

"No, I don't think so," Sarah said, and smiled a little. "I believe you'd enjoy working for him."

McMurphy rolled her eyes. "Shrinks just can't resist analyzing, can they?"

Sarah laughed. "Afraid not. But you know I'm right."

The older woman looked away. "Working with crazy people got me into a lot of trouble back in the day."

"He's not crazy," Sarah said. "He's manipulative, misogynistic, irritable, sarcastic, and a born limit-pusher. But he's rational to a fault when it comes to medical practice, and he knows what he's doing. There's a long line of patients who can attest to all of that because they're alive and relatively healthy thanks to him." She got to her feet. "We can talk this over at the house. You must be hungry and tired after such a long drive. You can follow me to our place and we'll get you set up in a room."

McMurphy tilted her head. Her dark eyes held a glint of amusement. "I can see why he likes you. You take care of people."

"Yes," Sarah said. "Guilty as charged. Aren't you glad?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah." The older woman got to her feet. "I hope you're a good cook too."

They arrived at the house to find Greg's car parked at one end of the drive, an effective block. Sarah rolled her eyes and put Minnie in her usual spot. She guided McMurphy's SUV in beside the truck.

"Great ride," McMurphy said as they passed Barbarella. "House's?"

"Oh yeah," Sarah said dryly, to make the other woman laugh. They went inside. McMurphy stopped in the front hall, took in the living room and Gene draped across the couch as he watched the football game, his sock-clad feet propped on the arm and beer in hand.

"Nice," she said after a few moments.

"Thanks. Have a seat," Sarah said. "Can I get you anything? A soda, beer, glass of wine?"

"Something non-alcoholic would be great," McMurphy said quietly. Sarah nodded.

"Okay." She caught the silent subtext and made no other comment. "Gene, this is Captain Colleen McMurphy. McMurphy, this is my husband Gene Goldman."

Gene went from boneless sprawl to on his feet. "Captain," he said, and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

McMurphy shook his hand and took Greg's easy chair, something Sarah noted with secret amusement. "Likewise. Don't let me interrupt."

"Eagles were losing anyway," Gene said, and sat down. He turned down the television. "I understand you're here to consider taking the job with House."

McMurphy nodded, brows raised. "'Consider' being the operative word."

"She'll be staying with us tonight," Sarah said. "Why don't you show her to one of the spare bedrooms while I get us something to drink and start supper?" She glanced at McMurphy. "If you don't mind, I'll call Greg and let him know you're here."

"Fine by me." There was a cool assertion in the older woman's tone that spoke volumes about her opinion of Doctor House. She said nothing more, just retrieved her overnight bag and followed Gene up the stairs. Sarah watched her and smiled a little. After a few moments she went to the phone and hit speed-dial.

"Hey," she said when Roz answered. "Come on over for supper. Greg needs to conduct an interview. Captain McMurphy's here."

"The nurse working with the young guys at the VA hospital?"

"That's the one," Sarah said.

"Okay, I'll tell him. We've got good news too," Roz said. She sounded relaxed and happy. "What can I bring?"

"If you have some of Lou's Italian bread, bring it on over," Sarah said. "But just your husband is fine."

"He won't slice up as nice for garlic bread," Roz laughed. "See you in a few."

_That's the sound of a satisfied woman,_ Sarah thought as she ended the call and went into the kitchen. _They're working it out, and that's great . . . but I'm still going to make my suggestion._


	30. chapter 30

Greg and Roz showed up half an hour later, and not just with garlic bread ready to run under the broiler but dessert too. "Raspberry clafouti," Roz said. "It was almost done when you called."

"It smells like heaven," Sarah said, and offered a hug. She looked at Greg. "You have something to tell me."

"Where's the battleax?" He leaned against the counter.

"If you mean Colleen McMurphy, she's upstairs getting settled," Sarah said. "Roz said you have good news. What is it?"

"She came all this way when I already know she's a pain in the ass—"

"_Greg_," Sarah said in mild exasperation. "Talk to her before you decide she's not what you need. Now stop jerkin' me around."

"Okay, jeez. Impatient much?" Greg paused. "No more pillows needed for missionary position." He gave her a direct look, his blue eyes bright. Sarah put down the pot holder she'd picked up, as surprise gave way to delight.

"Oh," she said, and felt tears well. "Oh, that's _wonderful!_" She hurried around the counter, arms wide.

"_God,_" Greg groaned, but he didn't tense up or flinch when she hugged him gently. His hand rested on her back for a moment. When she released him he looked down at her. A rare but genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You must hate it when you're so predictable."

"Just hush. I'm allowed to be happy for you." Sarah smiled at Roz. "I hope you both have a great time exercising together."

Roz laughed as McMurphy entered the kitchen. Sarah watched her take in her surroundings with a single quick glance, a nurse's instinct at work.

"Doctor House." McMurphy gave him a cool stare. "Good to see you moving around so well."

"For a decrepit old fart." He returned her look with a full force glare.

"You're ten years younger than me," she said.

"It ain't the years, it's the mileage."

"That still makes me older than you." The flat certainty in her voice would make Greg's hackles rise, Sarah knew the signs all too well.

"Before you begin beating each other up in earnest, let's have supper," she said. McMurphy spared her a look, brows raised, but said nothing more. Greg rolled his eyes.

"Wet blanket," he said, and went to the fridge to extract a cold beer.

For a time everyone was preoccupied with dinner. Sarah had ditched her plan for roast chicken and vegetables and made spaghetti instead, since it was easier to double the amount of sauce and pasta for the number of people present. Both Gene and Greg could pack away sizable amounts of food, and she didn't want to come up short.

"Poppi's been teaching you his secrets," Roz said. She smiled at Sarah. "That's a high honor, you know."

"Yes, it is," Sarah said.

"What kind of secrets?" Greg wanted to know. He popped a huge forkful of pasta into his mouth and chewed noisily.

"If she told you they wouldn't be secrets," McMurphy said. There was humor under the sarcasm.

"Brilliant deduction," Greg said around his mouthful of food. He swallowed and watched McMurphy. "You came all the way here to make obvious comments?"

"I like long drives," McMurphy said. Something flickered in her gaze, but it remained cool and amused. Sarah took mental note of that little touch of emotion.

"I'm glad you decided to take me up on the offer," she said, and sent the garlic bread basket around the table. Greg glanced at her. _I know what you're up to_, that glare said silently. Sarah offered him a sunny smile.

"I understand you're from Kansas," Gene said as he took two slices of bread and passed the basket to Roz.

"Lawrence," McMurphy said.

"Not too far from Kansas City, right?" Sarah said, as she tried to place the town on her mental map.

"Closer to Topeka." McMurphy accepted the basket and took a slice.

"This is fascinating," Greg said. He took a large bite of garlic bread, crunched it between his teeth in open-mouthed mastication before he swallowed loudly.

"Glad you think so," McMurphy said. She looked amused.

"Absolutely. There's nothing more entertaining than a gaggle of midwesterners talking about home. Dirt roads, chickens in the back yard, the latest EF5 twister to wipe out your town . . ."

"We don't call them twisters. Only tourists do that," McMurphy said.

"You've said that too," Greg said to Sarah. She nodded and glanced at Gene, brows lifted slightly. He returned her look with one of his own, amusement edged with resignation.

"We do have a native of the Adirondacks with us," he said, and smiled at Roz. McMurphy's antagonism receded, replaced by a genuine if somewhat cautious friendliness.

"This is a beautiful place to grow up," she said.

"Thanks," Roz said. "We tend to take it for granted until someone reminds us."

"Winters here are a bitch." Greg took a long swallow of beer. "Not much to do except sit on top of the stove and drink."

"They're not exactly tropical in Albany," McMurphy said dryly. "I went through two snow shovels last year. None of them went to the dumpster accompanied by empty bottles, in case you're wondering."

"I thought your people only rode brooms," Greg said.

"Just in summer."

"It's tough to sweep a six-foot drift into a dustpan," Sarah said, and joined in the laughter.

The conversation became more general after that, though Greg added little to it. Sarah knew perfectly well what he was up to: he used his gift for observation to add more ammunition to his depleted stock. She could easily stave him off, but if McMurphy was truly interested in the position at the clinic, she had to know exactly what she'd deal with.

"Why are you here?" Greg asked when the meal was finished.

"Isn't it obvious?" McMurphy sat back, arms folded.

"Yeah yeah, the job and all that." Greg waved his hand. "I mean what are you so desperate to leave behind you'd come here to escape it?"

McMurphy looked from Sarah to Greg and back again. "I thought she was the analyst."

"At the moment she's the referee." Greg polished off his beer.

"How many of those do you go through in a day?"

"Enough to make me feel good, but not enough to make the brewer happy," Greg said. "Answer the question."

"'Desperate' is a little dramatic," McMurphy said. "I've worked at the VA for a while now. Maybe I'd like to try something different."

"You have an excellent rapport with your patients," Greg said. "I thought all nurses lived for that kind of thing."

"Generalizations are dangerous. I thought all doctors understood that kind of thing."

"Gosh, touché," Greg said softly. "Hit me right where I live."

Roz eased out of her chair and stood. "I'll leave you to it," she said, and bent down to kiss Greg's cheek before she headed into the living room. Gene got to his feet as well. He saluted McMurphy.

"Good luck, Captain," he said wryly, and followed Roz. McMurphy glanced at Sarah, who shook her head.

"I'm not goin' anywhere. Someone has to be the umpire and call the play."

"In other words I should answer the question," McMurphy said.

"It's up to you," Sarah said. The older woman exhaled softly.

"Okay, fine." She faced Greg. "I'm not running away from anything. I did my time trying to escape reality years ago until I realized it was pointless. I like my work, and I like helping young guys like Eric. But lately . . ." She fell silent a few moments. "It's not enough."

"It's the adrenaline you're missing," Greg said. It sounded accusatory, but McMurphy actually smiled just a little.

"That's part of it, I suppose."

"Hah." Greg sat back. "What I do isn't trauma or emergency room meatball surgery. It's a long con, not a shell game."

"Take one patient and solve the unsolvable," McMurphy said. "You're telling me there aren't crises? Times when the patient's life hangs in the balance and every second counts? Please."

"My work's a lot like being a soldier in combat," Greg said. He watched the older woman closely. "Long periods of boredom interspersed with moments of insanity and panic."

McMurphy gave him a sardonic look. "You've never been in uniform," she said, but it wasn't a reproach, just an observation.

"I lived on enough bases to get the gist of the metaphor." He fell silent for a moment. "What would you say if I told you a faith healer shrank a patient's tumor?"

McMurphy thought about it. "The healer was a patient as well," she said. Greg nodded. "I'd say it's likely he or she passed some kind of virus to the other patient and it attacked the tumor. There are at least two ongoing trials here in the States involving viruses and cancer."

"Not a believer? A good Irish Catholic girl like you? I'm shocked."

"Pfft." McMurphy looked away. "More like delighted." She tilted her head a bit. "How would you treat someone with Gulf War syndrome?"

"I don't believe in syndromes," Greg shot back. "It's another word for 'we're too lazy to figure this out'. Syndrome's a shorter and catchier label, true, but still wrong."

"So how would you find out what's really going on?"

"I have one philosophy. It's called 'whatever works'."

To Greg's evident surprise McMurphy looked pleased. "We used that method extensively at the Five and Dime. There's a big group of ex-soldiers who can testify to its success."

_Even points on both sides,_ Sarah thought. Aloud she said "let me clear the table and bring out the dessert before you begin round two."

"If you don't mind I think I'll head off to bed," McMurphy said. "I've been up since four this morning and I'm a little tired." She looked at Greg. "We can pick up where we left off tomorrow before I go back, if you'll be around."

"I can arrange to be here," Greg said. His blue eyes glinted. "You taking the job?"

"Have to sleep on it." McMurphy got to her feet and picked up her plate. "Got a dishwasher?"

Sarah sent her upstairs with a bowl of clafouti and dished up portions for everyone else. Greg took his and ate several spoonfuls before he spoke again. "At least it wasn't an outright refusal. Think she'll take it?"

"Don't know," Sarah said. "She's intrigued but she has more questions, and so do you." She sat down next to Greg. "You'll either work it out and make an agreement, or you won't."

Greg licked his spoon. "True. You have something else on your mind though."

"Yeah." Sarah resisted the urge to put her hand on his arm; she knew it would make him suspicious of her motives. "Let's get Roz and go into the office."

"Uh oh, this is big," Greg said softly. His vivid gaze searched her face; Sarah saw concern and anxiety there, along with an edge of guilt. "What's up?"

"Office," Sarah said firmly, and stood.

Once the door was shut behind them and both parties were seated Sarah perched on the edge of the extra chair they kept by the woodstove. "I have a suggestion," she said. "I'd like you to see a marriage counselor."

Greg turned his head to send Roz a piercing stare. "Did you put her up to this?" he demanded.

"No, I didn't," Roz said. She sounded defensive.

"She's telling the truth," Sarah said. "I've been wanting to say this for a while, but thought I'd give you a chance to work things out on your own."

"Something we managed just fine by ourselves." Greg was annoyed, that much was plain.

"True," Sarah said quietly. "You had a wonderful thing happen, which helped you both find a way to surmount the anger and pain. Next time you may not be so lucky. And there will be a next time."

Greg looked down at the blotter on what was now Gene's desk. "So you know I'll mess up again."

"It's not a question of messing up," Sarah said. "You and Roz are both strong, stubborn and capable of hitting each other's vulnerable places when emotion overcomes reason. I think you need help finding other ways to deal with a situation like the one two weeks ago."

"You know someone," Roz said. Sarah nodded.

"She's an old friend and very good at what she does. She doesn't speak in platitudes and she knows how to listen."

"You and Gunney went to her," Greg said.

"Yes we did, and we still see her when we need some help." Sarah looked at her hands. "I can give you her name and number and you can decide if you want to work with her, but I urge you to say yes and set up an appointment. You need help."

Silence greeted this statement. When she looked up she saw Greg glance at Roz, then away. "I think we should do it," Roz said after a moment.

"It's bullshit," Greg muttered.

"It's not an admission of defeat or failure to see a counselor," Sarah said. "It's actually a good sign that you want to—"

"Spare me the pep talk," Greg snapped. "We've been married all of six months and we have to see a shrink. It's the Challenger and defective o-rings all over again."

"No it isn't," Roz said quietly. "It's you and me trying to find a better way to manage our arguments so we don't hurt each other the way we did two weeks ago."

"You mean the way I hurt you," Greg said.

"I hurt you too." Roz sighed. "I don't want to do that anymore, and I think you don't either. So let's get some help before one of us says or does something the other won't be able to forgive or forget." She reached out and took his hand in hers. "Please, _amante_."

He struggled with it, but Sarah noted with satisfaction that he didn't let go of Roz's hand. "'kay," he said at last and with great reluctance. Sarah opened her desk drawer and took out a business card.

"Her name is Hazel Vorobyov and she lives in New York City. I think she'd be okay with coming up on a weekend to stay here once a month, but you can work that out with her." She handed the card to Roz. "I'll be happy to help in any way possible." She made herself continue. "I have to be honest. The other reason why I suggested you see a counselor is because you both need to learn to deal with crises together. Coming to me first when something happens just transfers the responsibility for making things right to my shoulders, and that's not where it should be."

"So you've decided to take down your shingle." Greg spoke in a neutral, almost indifferent tone, but Sarah heard the fear, saw the way his fingers tightened on Roz's.

"No," she said. "No, I'm not. I'm always here for both of you. But you need to learn to work with each other first in every way possible before you come to me." She leaned forward a little. "I'm still Doctor Goldman and more than happy to help in any way I can. I just need to be further down on your list, that's all."

Roz nodded. "Okay," she said hesitantly. Greg sighed.

"Yeah," he said.

"Okay then. Give Hazel a call and get things set up."

As they went into the living room Sarah said softly to Greg, "Give her a chance. I think you'll find she's worth working with." She put her hand on his shoulder, rubbed it gently. "I'm here whenever you need me, son."

He muttered under his breath, but she felt him relax a little under her touch.

It was another hour or so before Greg and Roz left. When they were gone Sarah sat in Greg's easy chair.

"How'd it go?" Gene asked.

They're going to give Hazel a try." Sarah tucked a curl behind her ear.

"If anyone can help it'll be her." Gene patted the open spot in front of him. Sarah got up and went to him, stretched out next to him with a sigh as his long arm brought her close.

"I hope it's the right thing to do," she whispered.

"It is." Gene kissed the top of her head. "You'll see. She'll show them they can make things work, the same way she did with you and me."

Sarah nodded and snuggled in. She watched the dying fire dance and flicker in the fireplace. "Something tells me it's going to be a good harvest this year."

"Mmm." Gene rested his cheek against her hair. "We'll see how it turns out, but I'm not worried." He twined a curl around his finger, tugged it gently. "The doctor is out and my best girl is in now. Just relax and enjoy the moment."

Sarah smiled and kissed the hand. "I bet you say that to all your girls," she said.

"Nope. Just you."

"Good." _Let it stay like this for just a little while_, she prayed to Whomever might be listening. _A few moments of joy, and then we'll move on to whatever comes next. _


End file.
